


An Enigma

by blueannawriting



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Drama, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Mystery, Romance, Sherlock is a drama queen, Slow Burn, but like... very eventual
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-29
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-04-29 19:53:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 32,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14479995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueannawriting/pseuds/blueannawriting
Summary: You live in the flat underneath Sherlock Holmes. You work at St Barts as a pathologist, and you just can't escape the presence of the inexplicably enigmatic and intriguing detective. Sherlock x reader; canon, reader-insert.





	1. Chapter 1

**It's Always Like That**

The day started much the way it was wont to do at 221B Baker Street: Mrs. Hudson dropped tea off at your apartment door; you heard Sherlock come clambering down the stairs at some ungodly hour; and you -- invariably -- were running slightly late to work.

Your tardiness was not entirely your fault; an unfortunate side-effect of having the consulting detective living just over your bedroom was the noise at odd hours in the night, every night. Translation: your nights were restless at best, completely and utterly void of sleep at worst. Waking up in the morning and dragging yourself out of bed was akin to walking on broken glass barefoot, but you did it anyway, because work was work, and you needed the job. That didn't mean you liked living under Sherlock Holmes.

So, on that dreary morning, you crawled out of bed and into the bathroom to get ready, all the while cursing the very existence of Sherlock "The Insomniac" Holmes. You forced your hair into some semblance of a ponytail, hastily brushing out the knows that had formed during your restless night. You dug through your scrubs, noting to yourself that you had to do laundry soon, and put on a clean pair. Grabbing your lab coat as you slipped out the door, you made your way to St. Barts Hospital. You silently gave whatever God there was a prayer of thanks that you had Molly to ensure you never needed to be around whenever Sherlock decided to pop in, steal a corpse or two, or dissect an eyeball. Not that Molly minded, you thought to yourself, rolling your eyes. She was always more than happy to accommodate the insufferable detective's whims. And not that it was even your job to assist Sherlock; you weren't a lowly lab tech. You were a pathologist. You had an M.D. and no time for Sherlock's antics.

The overcast, cloudy sky seemed particularly oppressive today as you hailed down a cab. Traffic was light that morning, the ride to the hospital was uneventful. You sighed in relief as the hospital came into view; you wouldn't be as late as you had anticipated you would be.

As you entered the lab, you saw equipment out and abandoned. Molly was here, then. Sherlock must have been, as well, if Molly had up and left everything out irresponsibly. If you had to put money on it, you would bet Molly had wandered off to let Sherlock into the mortuary. Shaking you head, you flicked on the lights into your office. You didn't see why Sherlock couldn't just get a damn key already. Your computer monitor was already on, lighting up with notifications; breast biopsies, skin biopsies, other cell samples to analyze. You flopped back into your chair; it was going to be a long day, and it was only nine in the morning.

At ten, you left to go drop off a lab report at a doctor's office, and when you turned into the hallway leading into the lab, you saw Molly scurrying back into the lab, Sherlock unsurprisingly sauntering in behind her, looking for all the world like he owned the hospital itself. It was a good thing there was only one of him, you snorted to yourself you came down the hallway.

By the time you opened the door, you saw Sherlock already there, analyzing something under a microscope. Molly hovered around in the background uncertainly.

"Good morning, Molly," You greeted her casually. Molly nodded back at you, seeming almost nervous. You really hoped Molly wasn't about to try and ask Sherlock out on a date again.

From the lab table, Sherlock shushed you.

"I'm concentrating," he snapped, not looking up from the microscope.

"And I'm working," you retorted waspishly, sweeping back into your office dramatically. The effect was probably lost on Sherlock, who hadn't even glanced up. Molly eventually followed you into the office and sat down at her desk, taking out some paperwork to fill out.

At eleven-thirty, you watched as Molly walked out of the office and over to Sherlock, who was standing at the far side of the lab, dropping liquid onto a Petri dish. She was likely asking if he wanted more coffee, you thought critically.

Just then, the three of you heard a knock. Sherlock glanced up for a brief moment as the door opened and two newcomers entered. Molly stepped back, and made her way to the far side of the room, exiting, and you got up to the doorway of the office.

One of the men you knew; Mike Stamford. A good man, decent enough, talkative though. You hung back; once the man got talking, he was liable to continue. The second man, you didn't know.

He had closely cropped hair, wearing a neat checkered shirt underneath a black utility jacket and slacks. His shirt was tucked in, and he had a cane held in his right hand. He walked with a limp. A military man, then. But he was too small and lean to be a soldier.

Then he spoke, with a slight laugh in his voice.

"Well, bit different from my day," He tilted his head back to examine the room more closely.

"You've no idea!" Mike chuckled, then waved at you when he noticed you standing in the doorway. You inclined your head.

"Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine." Sherlock said as he sat down, going back to his work.

"And what's wrong with the landline?" Mike raised an eyebrow, shooting you a glance. You shrugged helplessly.

"I prefer to text." Sherlock replied, and you had to actively restrain yourself from laughing and rolling your eyes at him. It was such a Sherlock response.

"Sorry. It's in my coat," Mike shrugged apologetically, and leaned against the counter top near the door.

The man with the cane reached into his back pocket and fished out his phone.

"Er, here. Use mine," he offered. You raised an eyebrow; there weren't that many people around who would offer Sherlock something, even those who had only just met him. He was kind, then, a rare trait.

"Oh. Thank you." Sherlock glanced briefly at Mike, and you didn't miss the surprised expression he wore on his face as he stood up and walked toward the ex-military man.

Taking the cue, Mike introduced the man to Sherlock, "It's an old friend of mine, John Watson."

Sherlock nodded in acknowledgment of Mike's introduction and then reached out and took the phone John held out. Turning partially away, toward you, he flipped open the key and started to type on it rapidly. Without looking up from the screen, Sherlock spoke.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John frowned, and Mike smiled knowingly. You couldn't suppress the smirk that crept up on your face. John looked back at Sherlock as he typed away, affecting an air of disinterest.

"Sorry?"

"Which was it – Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock spared another glance at John before looking back to the phone. John hesitated, then looked at Mike, confused. You felt a little badly for John; the poor man had no idea who exactly he had just met. In response, Mike smiled smugly without saying a word.

"Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you know ...?" John finally said, trailing off uncertainly.

Molly reentered at that point, holding a cup of coffee in her hands.

"Ah, Molly, coffee. Thank you." Sherlock said, taking the coffee out of her hands. He paused and did a double-take at her. You silently cringed; Molly had taken her lipstick off, and Sherlock was going to say something about it.

"What happened to the lipstick?"

Poor Molly, you thought sympathetically as she shifted uncomfortably and smiled awkwardly at Sherlock.

"It wasn't working for me," she explained halfheartedly, an undertone of disappointment in her voice, though you imagined you caught that only because you were listening for it.

"Really? I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth's too small now." He commented, and you snapped your teeth together to contain your gasp. Sherlock turned away from Molly and walked back to his station, taking a sip from the mug and grimacing at the taste. You ground your teeth together irritably; it wasn't like Sherlock was really in position to be complaining. He didn't even work at St. Barts, for crying out loud.

Molly hung her head a little, blinking too quickly.

"...Okay..." She turned and headed toward your office, where you stood, leaning unobtrusively at the doorway. You let her pass, setting a reassuring hand on her arm for a moment as she walked by.

"How do you feel about the violin?" Sherlock suddenly asked. John looked around, bewildered, first at Molly, then at you, and finally at Mike who was still smiling like the cat who ate the canary, and after another beat, John realized Sherlock was talking to him.  
" I'm sorry, what? "  
Typing on a laptop keyboard, Sherlock replied"I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end." He looked up at John. You rolled your eyes; playing the violin was not exactly a rarity. Nor was hearing it from the floor under, though you had to admit he played nicely.

"Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other." You snorted at that; those were hardly Sherlock's worst attributes, and Sherlock sent you a look before turning back to John and giving him a hideously false and huge smile. John looked at him blankly for a moment, and then looked back again at Mike.

"Oh, you ... you told him about me?"

"Not a word," Mike denied, a hint of that smug smile still present in the lines of his eyes.

"Then who said anything about flatmates?" John asked, turning back to Sherlock.

"I did. Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't that difficult a leap." Sherlock shrugged magnanimously, and put his coat on dramatically.

"How did you know about Afghanistan?" John persisted, his expression befuddled.

"Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it." Sherlock ignored the question and wrapped his scarf around his neck. He picked up his mobile and checked it. "And she lives there, too."

For the first time, Sherlock acknowledged your presence, jerking his head in your direction.

"Hi," you interjected, watching as Sherlock sauntered toward John.

"We'll meet there tomorrow evening; seven o'clock. Sorry – gotta dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary." Sherlock announced decisively, tucking his phone into the inside breast pocket of his coat. He brushed by John, gave you a nod goodbye and headed for the door.

"Is that it?" John inquired, shocked, turning with Sherlock's movement. Sherlock paused, and strolled back to John.

"Is that what?" He cocked his head and raised an eyebrow.

"We've only just met and we're gonna go and look at a flat?" John blustered, waving a hand about, disoriented. A smile tugged at your lips. 

"Problem?"

John smiled in disbelief, you imagined. He looked at Mike for help, but Mike merely stood there smiling as he watched Sherlock. John turned to you for help and you gave him an encouraging smile and tried to portray an "it's-okay-you'l-get-used-to-it" expression. Finally, John turned back to Sherlock.

"We don't know a thing about each other; I don't know where we're meeting; I don't even know your name."

Sherlock shot a look at you, exasperated, and then he scrutinized John for a moment.

"I know you're an Army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him – possibly because he's an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic – quite correctly, I'm afraid." Sherlock deduced, flipping his coat collar up.

"Sherlock!" YOu chastised, unable to contain yourself any longer. He looked at you apologetically for a moment.

"Couldn't contain myself, Y/n." He said as John looked down at his leg and the cane and shuffled his feet uncomfortably. Smugly, Sherlock added, "That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?"

He turned and walked to the door again, opening it with a flourish and sweeping through. Catching himself at the last moment, he leaned back into the room again.

"The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is two two one B Baker Street." He winked at John, shot a grin at you, and then looked at Mike, "Afternoon."

Mike gave him a pseudo-salute in farewell as Sherlock disappeared dramatically from the room. As the door slammed shut, John turned to face you and Mike. Mike smiled and nodded knowingly.

"Yeah. He's always like that," you told him, backing into your office and looking at the work that awaited you.


	2. "Helping"

o be perfectly honest, you weren't entirely sure how you and Sherlock wound up sharing a cab later that day. It was seven-thirty in the evening by the time you managed to get off, finally completing the reports and tests you had needed to. Molly had left two hours earlier, telling you to go and get dinner before you went to bed. You'd agreed absently, mind fully focused on the microscope in front of you. When you finally managed to get out the door of St. Barts', none other than Sherlock Holmes stood by the door, brow stormy and coat collar flicked up against the brisk night air.

"Y/N," he greeted you impatiently. "Let's share a cab."

You paused, stopping mid-step.

"What are you doing here?" You asked him, after a moment of silence in which you stared at him questioningly, waiting for him to answer.

"Will you share a cab?" He replied impatiently, ignoring your question. You sighed, knowing you weren't going to get an answer out of him.

"Sure," you replied tiredly, watching as he pivoted sharply on his heel and flagged a cab down.

Inside the cab, you sat in silence, observing Sherlock with interest. You not have been the way Sherlock was, but you weren't completely unobservant. His leg was shaking, impatient. His fingers were drumming against his right leg, and he was glaring out the window. Finally, as the cab turned the corner to Baker Street, he cleared his throat and turned to you.

"As you know, John Watson is coming over to Baker Street tomorrow," he paused, clearing his throat, "And I would like it...very much... if you would help me straighten up my flat."

"You're asking me to clean your flat with you?" You raised an eyebrow incredulously. Sherlock, in your experience, had never asked for help.

"It would appear social etiquette dictates that one's abode should be clean when welcoming guests." He replied flatly. You let out a long exhale through your nose and scrutinized him thoughtfully.

"Somehow," you began wryly, "I doubt there is much choice for me in the matter."

Sherlock shot you a glare and then looked at you consideringly.

"Is that a yes, then?" he asked impatiently. You nodded and returned to staring out the window.

You and Sherlock weren't friends, not in the slightest. He'd --by his own admission -- once said he didn't have friends. But you'd be lying if you said you weren't impressed by him. You'd been neighbors for over a year now, and had sometimes been roped into coming along with him when a case arose.

Privately, you thought it was because Sherlock, for all his bluster about being alone, did not really like being alone very much. And he desperately needed someone to show his genius off to. A small pang went through you at that thought, and you looked thoughtfully at Sherlock. He was lonely, and he didn't want to be. Hence, you concluded, the need for John Watson. You knew damned well that Sherlock would be able to take care of rent by himself.

"Where do you want to start?" You asked him, shaking him out of his thoughts, and you out of yours.

"What do you mean?" Sherlock had evidently already forgotten why you were in the car with him.

"In your flat. Where do you want to start?"

"Oh, my flat. Boring. Wherever." Sherlock replied flippantly before addressing the cab driver. "Good God, how long will this take? Are you driving across London the long way?" His voice was snappish and cold, and you felt a twinge of sympathy for the poor cab driver, especially because you were coming up on Baker Street just now.   
Sherlock didn't wait to pay the fee; he hopped out of the cab almost before it had rolled to a complete stop, leaving you to dig through your over-stuffed bag to find the right change. I have to empty this thing out sometime. You promised yourself you would just as soon as you finished helping Sherlock.

***  
"Helping" turned out to be "doing-all-the-work-while-Sherlock-made-a-bigger-mess." Not that you really minded. Cleaning was, in its own way, a therapeutic exercise for you and Sherlock being occupied allowed you to explore and touch the odd knickknacks that lay scattered across the apartment without fear of receiving a stern, "don't touch that."   
And his shelves were fascinating, books stuffed in somewhat haphazard arrangements, dust motes swirling from a long time without cleaning. His flat was cluttered, lived-in. It had his essence scrawled out in its books and crannies, his mind and heart — or lack thereof — revealed in its impersonal touches and informational tomes. It felt like a home, even with the borderline hoarding of various odds-and-ends.  
It took you almost four hours to clean up the flat, though Sherlock looked up to tell you to stop when you started to enter his bedroom.   
Eventually, you plopped down the in front of him in the kitchen, taking care not to disturb the lab equipment and experiments he had out.  
"I'm done," you announced blandly, your tone flat. It'd been a long day.  
"Good, good." Sherlock did not spare you a glance. You stared at him for a long moment, disbelief lingering in your mind, despite the fact that, deep down, you knew helping Sherlock was likely to have been a thankless task.  
"I'm going home." He still didn't look up. You stood and picked your coat up. "Just for future reference, Sherlock, social etiquette also dictates that you thank someone when they help you."   
And with that, you walked out of the flat, slamming the door behind you.


	3. Thank You For Lat Night

You were home when John was set to arrive at Baker Street. In fact, you'd heard a knock, and had just opened the door for him -- though you hadn't realized it would be him. Behind him, Sherlock as just getting out of a cab -- likely from St. Barts', as Molly had sent you several irritated texts -- and you watched as he paused, and then called out a greeting. 

"Hello." 

John stopped, lowering his hand as Sherlock reached in through the passenger side window of the cab and handed some money to the driver. 

"Thank you," you heard him murmur to the driver. John slowly limped over to Sherlock.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes," he said, still unassuming and a little caught off guard.

"Sherlock, please," Sherlock replied, uncharacteristically genial. Looking away from John, toward the door, he shot you an apologetic smile. "Hello, Y/N,"

"Well," John looked at you and smiled in acknowledgment. "This is a prime spot. Must be expensive," he continued, brow furrowed. 

"Oh," Sherlock shook his head, "Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, she's giving me a special deal. Owes me a favour. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out." 

You rolled your eyes. You knew exactly what his "helping out" entailed.

"Sorry – you stopped her husband being executed?" John seemed impressed, and you couldn't contain the smirk that spread across your face. Sherlock looked blankly at John for a moment and then shook his head again.

"Oh no. I ensured it." 

He shot a sly smile at you, and then an innocent, blinding one at John as they made their way to the door. You moved out of the way, off to the side. From the corner of your eye, you saw Mrs. Hudson coming out of her flat to see the commotion.

"Sherlock. Hello, dear," she opened her arms to Sherlock, and he obediently hugged for a quick moment, thought he looked at you over her shoulder. Sherlock quickly extricated himself and then motioned toward John.

"Mrs. Hudson, Doctor John Watson."

"Hello," Mrs. Hudson greeted him pleasantly. "Sherlock," she added, "You should introduce him to Y/N here, too," 

"I --" Sherlock began as you cut him off.

"There's no need, Mrs. Hudson," you reassured the grandmotherly landlady. "We've already met." 

John cleared his throat. "How do, Mrs. Hudson?"

"Well, come in," Mrs. Hudson gestured John inside and he thanked her as he stepped into the building.

Sherlock cleared his throat and gestured toward the stairs. "Shall we?"

Mrs. Hudson and John both nodded, and Mrs. Hudson closed the door. As they made their way toward the stairs, Sherlock turned to you and under his breath murmured,

"Thank you. For last night." 

He didn't give you a chance to reply, instead turning and trotting up the stairs before pausing and then waiting for John to hobble up. You watched as John reached the top and Sherlock opened the door ahead of him, and then you turned and left 221B Baker Street.

***

You'd only just hailed a cab when your phone began its incessant pinging.

He said it could be nice, but we had to get "all this rubbish cleaned out." -SH

It would appear our efforts were lacking. -SH

You could picture Sherlock trying to contain himself as John -- surely unintentionally -- insulted the very cluttered 221B Baker St. You held back a laugh.

It's a good thing he didn't drop by before we cleaned it. 

You sent that, and then added.

And how did you manage to get my number?

The reply came not a second later.

It wasn't clean to John. -SH

You rolled your eyes.

That was a joke, Sherlock.

He is surprised by the skull. -SH

You sighed heavily. So this was how it was going to be. He would ignore that bit about getting your phone number, but was going to give you a play-by-play. 

I can't imagine why. 

Yes, you thought to yourself, why would anyone be surprised by a human skull sitting on the mantelpiece?

Nor can I. It isn't alarming. I told him it helps me think. And that he's a friend of mine. -SH 

You laughed out loud and the cabbie shot a concerned look at you. You'd forgotten Sherlock's ineptitude at discerning sarcasm.

Mrs. Hudson is under the impression that we will only be needing one bedroom. Very silly of her, don't you think? -SH

Silly, indeed, Sherlock, you thought, amused. What else would Mrs. Hudson think? Sherlock never had friends over, nor did he ever bring anyone home. Poor Mrs. Hudson was likely grasping at straws. 

Now she's reassuring John that there's all sorts around here. It's ridiculous! -SH

Indeed, you replied, on the verge of hysterical laughter. You could only imagine Sherlock's surprise and John's discomfort. For a fleeting moment, you wished you'd stayed to watch this all in person, but unfortunately, groceries didn't buy themselves. 

Your phone pinged again and the cabbie shot you an irritated look.

John is not impressed by my website. He doesn't believe me. -SH

You'd read Sherlock's website, though only because Sherlock had come crashing down to your flat in the middle of the night and had banged on the door until you blearily opened it for him, at which point he shoved his laptop in your face and demanded you read it. Needless to say, you didn't exactly cherish that memory. 

You were almost to the grocer's when your phone began pinging again. You looked down.

"Oh for the love of --" you cut yourself off and then addressed the cabbie. "I'm afraid we need to change course."

He looked at you through the mirror.

"Yes, miss? Where to?"

You looked down at your phone.

"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens."

Had been looking up, you might have noticed the flash of panic that crossed the cabbie's face. Instead, you were preoccupied with the barrage of texts.

There's been another suicide. -SH

It's different this time. Lestrade's here. -SH

He wants me at the scene. -SH

Anderson's supposed to there. -SH

Come to Brixton, Lauriston Gardens immediately if convenient. If inconvenient, come all the same. -SH


	4. I Assumed She Scrubbed Your Floors

It's Christmas! -SH 

John will be tagging along. He's an army doctor, seen a lot of violent deaths. -SH

The texts kept coming. At this rate, you would have to stay by Sherlock's side constantly to ensure you didn't miss anything. Not that you would anyway because Sherlock was giving you an exact live stream of what was happening. You could only imagine his glee. 

And? You sent back.

He'll be good for the case -SH

You rolled your eyes again and silently willed the cab ride to go by faster.

There's finally something fun going on! The game is on! -SH

We're in the cab. John doesn't believe that I'm the world's only consulting detective. -SH

By now, you'd resigned yourself to just reading his texts.

He told me I'm extraordinary. You never tell me I'm extraordinary. -SH

You could practically hear the accusing tone that went with the text. 

Yes, Sherlock. You're brilliant. You hardly need me to tell you this. 

He didn't respond, and you closed your eyes. Then,

SISTER! -SH

What?

IT'S HIS SISTER! -SH

"Dear -- Sherlock, what?" You muttered to yourself.

And then,

Where are you? -SH

Donovan's here -SH

Y/N. Where are you? -SH

You looked around.

I'm almost there. Give me a minute. 

Hurry -SH

Donovan, you thought to yourself. Donovan was the one likely pushing Sherlock to text you. Not intentionally, of that you were sure. But Donovan could never bring herself to be nice to Sherlock, or even remotely civil, and personally, you thought that impacted Sherlock a lot more than he let on. 

You thought about typing him a reassurance but then decided against it. The likelihood that he would be able to just read it and not lash out was low. Just then, the cab rolled to a stop, and you hurled a bank note at the cabbie and flung yourself out of the car.

It only took you a moment to locate Sherlock, where he stood rigidly next to John and Donovan, and you ran toward him. As you approached you could hear Donovan's nasty voice asking, 

"Why?" 

Shooting her an absolutely livid glare, you stopped beside Sherlock as he said in one of the most sarcastic tones you'd ever heard.

"I think he wants me to take a look."

"Well," Donovan sniffed, "You know what I think, don't you?"

Under your breath, you muttered, "And we know what you don't think."

Sherlock shot you an amused glance, and then he lifted the tape and ducked underneath it, still holding it up and gesturing you through. As he did this, he addressed Donovan.

"Always, Sally," he took a deep breath through his nose and added, "I even know you didn't make it home last night,"

You relished the brief look of horror that crossed over her face. 

"I don't," she sputtered, then cleared her throat and looked at John. "Er, who's this?"

Sherlock didn't look at her, taking your arm as he helped you under the tape.

"Colleague of mine, Doctor Watson." Sherlock turned to John, though you noticed he didn't let go of your arm. "Doctor Watson, Sergeant Sally Donovan," he paused his voice positively dripping with sarcasm. "Old friend," 

"A colleague?!" She sputtered, her voice going preposterously high. "How do you get a colleague?" She looked at John derisively. "What, did he follow you home?" 

Shifting on his feet uncomfortably, John looked at you for help. You shrugged; it was always like this. Sally Donovan was, for lack of a better description, a total bitch. 

"Would it be better if I just waited and..."

"No." Sherlock replied coolly, lifting the tape for him as well.

Donovan lifted the radio to her mouth. "Freak's here. Bringing him in. And he brought Y/N," she shot you a glare and you smiled sweetly at her. Donovan huffed and then lead toward the house. Beside you, Sherlock was rapidly taking everything, his eyes scanning the ground and surrounding area. You didn't miss how he moved you behind him, in between you and Donovan. As you reached the pavement, Anderson came out, dressed in coveralls and an expression of curdled disgust. 

"Ah, Anderson. Here we are again." Sherlock greeted him civilly. You were proud of Sherlock for being so polite, especially when Anderson glared at him with distaste.

"It's a crime scene. I don't want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?" He looked at Sherlock seriously, and then looked at you for good measure. You kept your expression carefully neutral, and Sherlock took another steadying breath through his nose.

"Quite clear." He paused, considering. "And is your wife away for long?" To anyone else, Sherlock seemed civil enough. But you knew him well enough by now to see the irritation and cruelty simmering beneath.

"Oh, don't pretend you worked that out. Somebody told you that," Anderson scoffed. 

"Your deodorant told me that."

"My deodorant?" 

Sherlock's lips quirked up."It's for men."

"Of course it's for men! I'm wearing it!" Anderson was indignant now, and you were suppressing your laughter. Sherlock winked at you and then turned to face Anderson fully, his face grave and wiped clear of any mirth.

"So's Sergeant Donovan."

You enjoyed the look of horror and shock that Anderson shot at Donovan. Maybe it was cruel of you, did you really did. Sherlock sniffed pointedly.

"Ooh," he dragged out. "and I think it just vaporized. May I go in?"

Anderson blustered angrily, jabbing his finger at Sherlock's face. "Now look, whatever you're trying to imply --"

"I'm not implying anything." Sherlock replied coolly as he brushed past Donovan and walked toward the front door. At the last second, he turned back, his coat whooshing dramatically about his knees. "I'm sure Sally came round for a nice little chat, and just happened to stay over, don't you think, Y/N?" He shot you a grin and you nodded in a disinterested manner. He turned back to Anderson, "And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees."

Anderson and Donovan stared at him in horror. He smiled smugly at them and then met your gaze and whirled into the house. You looked down to keep yourself from sticking your tongue out at Donovan as you walked past. John walked past Donovan but pointedly looked down at her knees before following Sherlock. You knew then that John Watson was going to fit in just fine. 

Inside, Sherlock stood on the ground floor where Lestrade was putting coveralls on. Turning to John, Sherlock said,

"You need to wear one of these." 

You'd done this enough to not need directions. 

"Hello, Y/N," Lestrade greeted you before looking at John. "Who's this?"

Taking his gloves off, Sherlock replied, "He's with me." 

"But who is he?" Lestrade looked at you and you shrugged noncommittally. It wasn't like you'd opted to take John, though you might have to bring him in the future solely because of the sass he brought.

" I said, he's with me." 

Nodding along with Sherlock, John took off his jacket and picked up a coverall while looking at Sherlock for direction. Poor judgement on his part, you thought.

"Aren't you gonna put one on?" John asked, referring to the coveralls. Sherlock sent him a stern look as he snapped on latex gloves, and then one at you, as if to say 'why didn't you tell him?' You raised your eyebrow challengingly and Sherlock tore his gaze away from you to Lestrade.

"So where are we?"

Picking up a pair of latex gloves, Lestrade responded, "Upstairs,"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! This is also on Wattpad (posted as You & Sherlock)


	5. Fun? There's A Woman Lying Dead!

Lestrade led you up a circular staircase.

"I can give you two minutes."

"May need longer," Sherlock replied breezily. You rolled your eyes.

"I'm sure you'll be fine," you muttered, giving Sherlock an unimpressed look.

"Her name's Jennifer Wilson according to her credit cards. We're running them now for contact details. Hasn't been here long. Some kids found her." Lestrade continued, ignoring your contribution. He lead you into a second story room that was completely bare except for a single rocking chair and, of course, the body. Creepy, you thought suppressing a shiver. There were large holes knocked into the walls, and scaffolding poles were holding up the ceiling. Scattered across the room were emergency portable lighting all bearing the carelessness of Scotland Yard's singular touch. 

And then, in dead center, the body. She was face down, wearing a bright pink fuzzy overcoat and high-heeled pink shoes. You had a brief thought that this could passably be a Dolores Umbridge cos-player. Her hands were flat on the floor, one on each side of her head. Sherlock had dragged you to enough cases by now that you didn't dare move, though you wanted to examine the body. He walked in ahead of you and then stopped so suddenly that you ran into him.

He held one hand out in front of him and focused on the corpse, expression focused. Next to you, John stared at the woman's body, first in shock, then his face contorted into pain and sadness. You reached out and squeezed his arm reassuringly. The four of you stood silent for several long moments, until Sherlock's head snapped toward Lestrade.

"Shut up."

"I didn't say anything," Lestrade protested, startled. Sherlock sighed dramatically.

"You were thinking. It's annoying." Sherlock stepped forward, before turning and gesturing you forward. "Y/N,"

You moved up to him, still as silent as possible. You followed Sherlock's eyes to the word scratched into the floorboards. Rache. You frowned. You may not have been Sherlock Holmes, but you were reasonably intelligent and well-read. Enough so that you knew what Rache meant. It was German for revenge, and the woman's index finger rested at the bottom of the "e." Her index and middle finger nails were broken and ragged, you noticed and knelt down to scrutinize that, careful to stay out of Sherlock's way.

To your surprise, Sherlock bent down and murmured in your ear.

"Left handed,"

"Rache -- German. Revenge. Noun," you replied softly. Sherlock shook his head dismissively and straightened.

It was silent for another few beats. "Rachel," he said finally. He squatted down next to you and ran his gloved finger across her coat. Examining it briefly, he reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a white folding umbrella. He huffed and inspected his glove again. Replacing the umbrella, he ran his fingers along the folds of the collar of her coat and then underneath.

You waited with bated breath, and then watched as he held out a hand.

"Magnifier."

You didn't move. He looked at you expectantly.

"In my coat."

You sighed but reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the magnifier. He took from you without a word and clicked it open, examining the delicate gold bracelet on her wrist... then the gold earring on her left ear...and then the gold necklace.

Behind you, John shifted uncomfortably. Sherlock ignored that, instead staring very hard at the woman's wedding ring. He started blinking very rapidly and for a moment, you wished you could hear his thoughts.

Carefully, he slid the ring off her finger and examined it more closely. You heard Lestrade start to say something before you turned to glare, effectively silencing him. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Sherlock's face split into a satisfied, private grin. Breaking his shamed gaze from you Lestrade addressed Sherlock,

"Got anything?"

"Not much," Sherlock replied nonchalantly, which you scoffed at silently. Standing up, Sherlock took off his gloves and then reached a hand down absently to help you up. Once you were standing, he reached into his pocket and retrieved his phone.

Anderson leaned casually against the doorway, watching Sherlock type.

"She's German. 'Rache': it's German for 'revenge'. She could be trying to tell us something ..."

He said it with such pomp and self-assured arrogance that you couldn't contain your derisive snort. Sherlock strode over to the door and began to close it in Anderson's face.

"Yes, thank you for your input," he said sarcastically, then muttered a few things under his breath. You thought you heard the words "blithering imbecile," but you couldn't be certain. Slamming the door shut, Sherlock walked back toward you. You peered over at his phone to see he'd pulled up the weather predictions. He clicked on the "Maps" option.

Uncomfortable now, Lestrade cleared his throat.

"So, she's German?"

Sherlock didn't even bother looking up from his phone. "Of course she's not. She's from out of town, though. Intended to stay in London for one night ... " he trailed off and then another smug smile appeared as he evidently found whatever it was in the weather he was looking for. " ... before returning home to Cardiff."

He pocketed his phone and glanced at you.

"So far, so obvious." There was a lilting in his voice now. You had a feeling he was still feeling sore from you not telling him he was extraordinary all the time.

"Sorry -- obvious?" John, whom you'd almost forgotten was there, spoke up. You shrugged, a move that was rapidly becoming your go-to that night.

"What about the message, though?" Lestrade interjected, frowning. Sherlock ignored him and looked at John.

"Doctor Watson, what do you think?"

"Of the message?" John asked, bewildered. 

"Of the body. You're a medical man." Sherlock clarified.

"So am I," you muttered under your breath, and Sherlock gave you a stern look. You rolled your eyes, wondering why exactly you were here in the first place.

"Wait, no, we have a whole team right outside." Lestrade protested, ignoring you.

"They won't work with me." Sherlock shot back. "Y/N's the only one who will."

"She's not even part of Scotland Yard! She's a pathologist. And I'm breaking every rule letting you in here." Lestrade exclaimed, exasperated. Then he muttered, "God, I need a cigarette."

"Yes ... you let me in because you need me." Sherlock said slowly, deliberately. Lestrade stared at him for a moment and then turned to you helplessly.

"Yes, I do. God help me." He paused. "How on Earth did we wind up here, Y/N?"

You looked at him and smiled innocently. "Don't ask me that. I'm just along for the ride. Though it's a shame that ride doesn't include a trip to the grocer's," You added under your breath.

Sherlock shot you an amused glance and then turned to John. "Doctor Watson."

"Hmm?" John looked up from the body to Sherlock and then looked at Lestrade as if to ask for permission. You expected that habit would be broken soon enough."Oh, do as he says. Help yourself." Lestrade huffed, a little indignantly. He turned and opened the door, storming outside. You heard a commanding, "Anderson, keep everyone out for a couple of minutes."

Sherlock and John walked over to the body and you resigned yourself to standing in the corner.

"Well?" Sherlock asked.

" What am I doing here?" John asked softly, more to himself than to anyone else. Sherlock didn't pick up on that social cue, though, and he responded in that same almost-whisper voice.

"Helping me make a point."

"I'm supposed to be helping you pay the rent."

"Yeah, well, this is more fun." To Sherlock, it would be, you thought ruefully. This whole stage-whisper conversation that was going on was getting ridiculous. 

"Fun? There's a woman lying dead." John replied, indignant and startled.

"Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you'd go deeper," Sherlock replied blandly. You snorted and walked over to the door and out into the hall just as Lestrade came back into the room. You heard John and Sherlock discussing -- well, you mostly heard Sherlock leading John on to the next set of conclusions in a logic-chain.

Then you heard John say, in an admiring tone, "That's brilliant," and a beat later.

"See, Y/N? Y/N? Where'd she go?" Another beat and some footsteps and Sherlock's head appeared peeking around the doorway. "See? John says I'm brilliant."

He walked back inside and then not a second later back out to you. "Dear God, what is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring." He tapped your forehead and then walked back into the room. You sighed. Either you would have to pay closer attention or absolutely no attention at all to your surroundings. You could hear Sherlock going off on his long-winded explanation. You were familiar with those.

Over the past year, you'd really had no choice but to get used to it. Sherlock had taken to coming into your apartment, unannounced and uninvited, every now and then to explain an entire case that'd he'd been on, and then to tell you all about how he solved it. At first, it was interesting, if a little irritating (4 a.m. wake-ups were highly unpleasant), but you found yourself unable to be cruel to him and kick him out. Especially when you saw how everyone else -- people like Donovan and Anderson -- treated him. And over time, he grew on you.

Not that that meant you were friends, of course. It just meant that Sherlock Holmes had no boundaries and, you thought privately, was desperately lonely. Or maybe it was just you who was lonely, and you were projecting onto Sherlock. Not that any of that mattered. The result was always the same: loquacious lectures on various subjects explaining this-and-that.

You heard John suddenly exclaim, "That's fantastic!"

Predictably, Sherlock's head popped out into the hallway a moment later and he spoke to you in a low voice. "Does he know he does that out loud?"

But not low enough, because John replied, "Sorry. I'll shut up."

Sherlock turned away from you.

"No, it's ... fine." His brow furrowed, he slowly stepped into the room, and this time, you followed. It wasn't fine, you realized, it was unusual. It was true that nobody ever really told Sherlock just how brilliant he was. You didn't, you realized with a pang of guilt, but then, you'd always thought he never needed any sort of reassurance. Silly of you, you berated yourself, to think of Sherlock Holmes as some inhumanely confident god.

Beside you, Sherlock was spinning around. "Yes, where is it? She must have had a phone or an organizer. Find out who Rachel is."

"She was writing 'Rachel'?" Lestrade asked, completely confused now. Not that you could blame him; you weren't exactly on the same page with Sherlock, either.

"No, she was leaving an angry note in German!" Sherlock said, sarcastically, his face contorting into a theatrical incredulous expression. It's a shame he didn't pursue acting or med school, you thought, he'd fit right in with the other drama queens. . "Of course she was writing Rachel; no other word it can be. Question is: why did she wait until she was dying to write it?

"How d'you know she had a suitcase?" This from Lestrade.

"How does Sherlock know anything?" You muttered, exasperated and impatient. And frankly, hungry, because your grocery trip had been cut off by one Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock elected to ignore you and instead pointed down at the body, toward her tights. "Back of the right leg: tiny splash marks on the heel and calf, not present on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand. Don't get that splash pattern any other way. Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes-conscious: could only be an overnight bag, so we know she was staying one night." He squatted down beside the woman's body and examined the backs of her legs more closely. "Now, where is it? What have you done with it?"

'There wasn't a case," Lestrade said, frowning. Slowly, Sherlock raised his head and matched Lestrade's expression.

"Say that again."

"There wasn't a case," Lestrade repeated himself. "There was never any suitcase."

Sherlock immediately straightened and headed for the door, grabbing your hand roughly and towing you along. Positively frenetic, he practically dragged you down the stairs, all the while shouting, 

"Suitcase! Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?"

You heard Lestrade and poor John with the gimpy leg clambering down behind you. 

"Sherlock!" Lestrade was huffing, slightly out of breath. "Sherlock, there was no case!"

Sherlock slowed a little, and you thanked whatever god up there that he did. Thoughtfully, Sherlock reflected, "But they take the poison themselves; they chew, swallow the pills themselves. There are clear signs. Even you lot couldn't miss them."

You elbowed Sherlock in the ribs and he shot you a bemused look. That was rude, you glared right back.

"Right, yeah, thanks." Lestrade said drily, "And ...?"

"It's murder, all of them. I don't know how, but they're not suicides, they're killings – serial killings." Sherlock let go of you to hold his hands up to his face in utter delight. "We've got ourselves a serial killer. I love those. There's always something to look forward to."

He turned back to you. "Come on Y/N," he gripped your arm again. "We've loads to do."


	6. He Puts The Drama Queens To Shame

As Sherlock pounded down the stairs with you in tow, Lestrade desperately tried to keep up.  
"Why are you saying that?"

Sherlock stopped again and pulled you up short so quickly you almost stumbled. This drag-and-almost-break-your-nose routine was getting old. 

"Her case! Come on, where is her case? Did she eat it?" he yelled out to the room at large, ignoring Lestrade. When no response came, Sherlock continued more softly, "Someone else was here, and they took her case. " Even more softly, Sherlock added, a hint of excitement in his voice, "So the killer must have driven her here; forgot the case was in the car.

"She could have checked into a hotel, left her case there," John pointed out. You might have agreed with him, but you knew Sherlock too well.

Sherlock looked back up towards the stairs, where the body was, and shook his head nearly imperceptibly. "No, she never got to the hotel. Look at her hair. She color-coordinates her lipstick and her shoes. She'd never have left any hotel with her hair still looking ..." He trailed off, and understanding suddenly lit up his face. "Oh."

"What?" You asked nervously. And Sherlock turned to you, expression positively giddy, his eyes wide.

"Oh." He clapped his hands together in what you could only guess was delight, based on his sudden grin. 

"Sherlock?" You asked carefully.

"What is it, what?" Lestrade came to attention then and John looked on, an interesting mixture of concern and confusion on his face. 

"Serial killers are always hard. You have to wait for them to make a mistake." He had that strangely manic grin on his face that you always found just a touch unnerving. You wished for a fleeting moment that you could see what you called his vulnerable smile, the one that touched his eyes, but then Lestrade rudely interrupted.

"We can't just wait!"

"Oh, we're done waiting!" Sherlock replied, grabbing your wrist again, starting down the stairs (again). How many more godforsaken stairs are there, for crying out loud?

"Look at her, really look! Houston, we have a mistake. Get on to Cardiff: find out who Jennifer Wilson's family and friends were. Find Rachel!" Sherlock said as he reached the bottom and continued on, out of view from Lestrade. 

"Of course, yeah – but what mistake?!" Lestrade yelled, and Sherlock let you go for one second to bound back up to the stairs, so he could be seen by all. Dramatically he announced to the room at large.

"PINK!" And then he dramatically swooped out, back to you. You rolled your eyes. You'd never met someone more suited to the theatre who wasn't an actor. Truly, he put every drama queen you'd met in primary school and even medical school (you'd be surprised at how many are there, as well) to shame. 

To you, he said, 

"Come on, Y/N. We're going hunting," and then he dramatically strutted off. You rolled your eyes again, and then rushed after him.

"Sorry -- we're --" you cut yourself off, focused on avoiding the members of Scotland Yard who were swarming the place. While Sherlock could part the crowd, you had to fight through it. When you finally made it through, Sherlock was yards ahead.

"We're going what?" You asked. you weren't sure you heard correctly, though it wouldn't exactly surprise you, knowing Sherlock. 

"Hunting, Y/N," he replied impatiently, hurrying past the cars and toward the main street. 

"What about John?" You asked, frowning.

"What about him?" Sherlock replied, not even casting a glance your way. You grabbed his arm harshly and pulled him up short. 

"If you and I leave, he'll be all alone."

"He's a military man, he'll be fine."

"Sherlock."

"What?" He said, exasperated. You exhaled heavily through your nose, trying to find your patience. You knew it was in there somewhere. Buried deep.

"He's never been with the people there. He's disabled --"

"It's psychosomatic," Sherlock interrupted impatiently and you glared at him. And it wasn't a little you-bumped-into-me-and-didn't-say-you're-sorry glare. It was an angry-teacher-stop-or-I'll-call-your-mother glare. "Sorry, do go on," he added more softly, relaxing his body slightly.

"As I was saying, you can't drag John to a crime scene and then just leave him there."

"Technically, Y/N, I didn't drag him there,"

"Sherlock." You pinched the bridge of your nose. "Okay. That's my limit for tonight."

"What?" Sherlock looked startled.

"I said, that's my limit. I'm done for the night. I have to work tomorrow, and there's no food at my flat -- or yours, for that matter -- and I'm tired. I'm going home."

Sherlock suddenly looked vulnerable in the cool night air, his face lit and shadowed by the street lanterns. 

"Are you mad at me?" he asked in a small voice, unexpectedly vulnerable. 

"No, I'm not mad -- I'm just..." You couldn't manage to find the words to express what it was you wanted to say, so you patted his arm. "Good luck on your hunting, Sherlock. I'll see you later, okay?" 

You pulled your coat tighter around your shoulders and turned to walk back to the house. 

Behind you, Sherlock was muttering something about "emotions" and "goldfish" but, more loudly he said, in a cold sharp voice that you'd never heard directed toward you,

"Good night, Dr. Y/L/N."

Shocked, you turned around, because Sherlock had addressed you formally maybe twice when you first met, but he was already running after his case. You sighed and turned away, a twinge in your gut.

You tried to shake off the strange feeling in your stomach, and the weird pressure in your throat, instead focusing on John walking out of the house, having discarded his coveralls, and looking around desperately for Sherlock. He walked toward the police tape where Donovan was standing and then Donovan stood a little straighter and opened her mouth to talk to him. A spike of anxiety shot through you, though you couldn't justify it, even to yourself. Straining your ears and hurrying along a little faster, you tried to reach the two.

Faintly, you heard John ask if he -- Sherlock, you presumed -- was coming back. Donovan shook her head and you didn't quite catch her exact words, but John just shifted back uncomfortably and looked around thoughtfully. You caught his eye and saw the relief that spread and disappeared quickly on his features. John turned to Donovan and you heard him ask,

"Sorry, where am I?"

"Brixton," Donovan replied as you approached the group.

"Right. Er, d'you know where I could get a cab? It's just, er ..." he looked down pointedly at his walking stick. "...my leg." 

"Er... try the main road," Donovan suggested, stepping over the tape and then pulling it up for John.

"Thanks," John replied, ducking under the tape. You came to stand by him and opened your mouth. You weren't sure what it was you were going to say, maybe to ask him if he wanted to grab a cab, or to apologize for Sherlock running off, but it didn't matter because Donovan cut in.

"But you're not his friend," 

John turned back to her and you narrowed your eyes at Donovan. 

"He doesn't have friends. So who are you?" Donovan continued, ignoring your expression. 

John looked at you in confusion. 

"But Y/N...She's..." He trailed off uncertainly when you didn't say anything. Finally, he turned back to Donovan. "I'm ... I'm nobody. I just met him,"

" Okay," Donovan nodded appraisingly. "A bit of advice then: stay away from that guy."

"Why?" There was a hint of alarm in his expression.

"You know why he's here?" Donovan challenged, and the twisting in your stomach suddenly got a lot worse. "He's not paid or anything. He likes it. He gets off on it. The weirder the crime, the more he gets off. And you know what? One day just showing up won't be enough. One day, we'll be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes will be the one that put it there," she finished triumphantly and you couldn't figure out if you were going to vomit or punch her in the face. 

"Why would he do that?" John shot a concerned look at you. You balled your fists.

"Because he's a psychopath. And psychopaths get bored." Donovan said in a bored tone.

"You don't know a damn thing," you said savagely, trying to contain yourself. You weren't normally a violent person, but you thought it was likely the body Scotland Yard would be standing around by the end of the night would be Donovan's. And Sherlock would not have been the person that put it there. Shaking you out of your thoughts, John put his hand on your shoulder. Donovan glared back at you and opened her mouth to reply -- and invariably escalate the situation -- but then Lestrade called out for Donovan.

Shooting you one last look, Donovan turned and started toward the house.

"Coming!" Then she paused and looked back at John.

"Stay away from Sherlock Holmes," She warned one last time.

John watched her go for a moment and then turned to you.

"Shall we get a cab?"

"Yeah," you replied. "Let's get a cab." 

You started walking, slowly, so that John could walk alongside you. You recalled Sherlock's cold tone toward you and you felt a pang. Was he angry at you? And then, of course, you couldn't understand your reaction to Donovan. Maybe, you tried to convince yourself, it was just because you don't like cruel words about anybody.

But you couldn't convince even yourself.


	7. I Just Don't Go For Hobbits

You and John slowly ambled down to Brixton High Road, and all you could focus on was your churning stomach and whirling thoughts.

You hadn't meant to fight with Sherlock, and you were frustrated with yourself. Sherlock -- as he had once pointed out -- was not your friend. And he didn't consider you his friend. Why then, you asked yourself, did you drop everything when he needed you? Why did he drag you to his cases? Why did you feel so damn guilty about arguing with him? You shook your head. Now wasn't the time to be thinking about this. You needed to get home and have a cup of tea. Then tomorrow morning, maybe you could beg some breakfast off Mrs. Hudson. And then maybe you could finally buy some groceries. Lord knew you needed them. The only things in your fridge were a jar of mustard and a couple slices of individually packaged cheese that were likely expired, now that you thought about it.

Resolve straightened your spine and sharpened your vision. Everything would be fine. You were in control of yourself once more. Beside you, John was frantically trying to hail a passing taxi.

"Taxi! Taxi ..."

The taxi passed him by. You'd reached the front of a fast food restaurant, called the Chicken Cottage. You were hungry, but not that hungry. John stopped and a look of defeat passed over his face. If you weren't so wrapped up in yourself and trying to get yourself sorted, you would have tried to offer him some comfort. 

The payphone on the wall of the restaurant started to ring. Payphones, you thought to yourself in vague distaste, how did they even still exist? One of the serving staff walked over to it, presumably to answer it, but as he reached for the phone it stopped ringing. Odd, you thought, and then you turned to John.

"Shall we continue onwards, Dr. Watson?"

"I don't see how we have much choice, Dr. Y/L/N," he replied grimly. 

You walked together in a companionable silence for a short while, your shoes making muted thuds on the cold cobblestones and John's walking stick falling just out of rhythm with your steps. 

"Is he always like that?" John asked eventually.

"Who -- Sherlock?"

John nodded.

"I couldn't say," you shrugged. Sherlock had never left you standing on a case. Probably because you wouldn't have let him. You would have beat him with one of his microscopes if he ever left you with a bunch of people that you didn't know. Inwardly, you smiled. It helped that you could keep up, physically at least, if not intellectually. To John, you continued, "Sherlock doesn't always see a lot of things that happen directly outside the-now. The case, I mean. He can be difficult, and sometimes -- no, always -- he gets impatient." 

John smirked at you.

"Sounds like you've been around him for awhile,"

You shrugged.

"So... you and Sherlock, are you..." John trailed off uncertainly.

"What?" You looked at him in a mild panic. "Sherlock and I? We're not -- no. We're neighbors. For some reason, maybe it was because we're neighbors or because we see an awful lot of each other at St. Barts, I got roped into tagging along when it came to visiting cases every now and then." You paused thoughtfully, "I guess I go with him more now than not,"

"So... you're just friends, then?" he ventured.

You laughed, a bitter edge coating your tone.

"Sherlock, as he will soon enough tell you, I'm sure, does not have friends."

"So what are you, then?"

"You'd have to ask him," you said coolly. Yeah, you wanted to know, too. 

"Well, seeing as you and Sherlock aren't... together," John tugged at his collar. "Maybe you'd like to go out with me sometime?" He laughed uncomfortably. "I mean, you're the only person who stuck around back there."

You laughed. 

"Dr. Watson, I'm just here in case someone decides to rob us, two people wandering down the street in the dark, there's an easier target than me." You sobered and looked at him, and smiled kindly. "I like you John, but I don't think I'm a take-to-dinner type of girl..." You paused, trying to articulate what it was exactly what you wanted out of any potential romantic connection, but when a face bubbled up in your thoughts unbidden, you decided against it. 

"Not looking for a relationship, eh?" John asked knowingly, taking the rejection with a grace you were almost envious of. If you weren't sure before, you knew then. John was someone you would really, really like to have in your life. He was just so... good. You shot him a familiar smile, suddenly feeling much more comfortable around him than before. 

"No, I just don't go for Hobbits," you teased him light-heartedly. John laughed, mimicking an injured expression.

"I'm not that short," he protested, laughing. 

"Compared to --" you cut yourself off before you could finish the sentence and the payphone that you were now passing began to ring. 

John, distracted by the ringing, stepped into the telephone box guardedly. 

You saw him mouth "hello." Then John frowned and looked around, outside the windows of the box. Unease churned in your gut. You followed John's gaze to where it was now fixed on a CCTV camera and to your surprise the CCTV camera swiveled in the opposite direction, away from you. John looked at another CCTV camera, and that one also turned away. He looked up, to the right, and you followed his gaze a fraction too late to see a third camera facing away from you. A shiver went down your spine and then a black car pulled up to the curb. You cursed internally and watched as John put the phone back on the hook and regarded it thoughtfully for a moment. 

He stepped out of the phone booth carefully.

"Well, Dr. Y/L/N, we've been asked to get in the car," 

You raised an eyebrow and watched as a male driver in inconspicuous clothing got out of the car and opened the door to the backseat. You looked back at John.

"We weren't given much choice," he added.

You nodded. It'd been a long night. It was about to get a lot longer, you thought to yourself as you slid into the backseat of the car.


	8. The Other Holmes

A few minutes later found you stuffed uncomfortably in the backseat of the car. On your left, an attractive young woman typed away at her BlackBerry, studiously ignoring you and John. On your right, John sat stiffly, his cane awkwardly squeezed between your thigh and his.

"Er... Hello," John said eventually to the woman beside you.

The woman looked up and flashed him a radiant smile before turning immediately back to her phone. 

"Hi,"

"What's your name, then?"

"Er..." the woman paused for a moment. "Anthea,"

"Is that your real name?" John asked. You rolled your eyes. 

"No," You interjected for the woman and she smiled at you. John nodded and then twisted away to look out the window.

Evidently unable to contain himself in the deafening silence, John turned back after several seconds.

"I'm John,"

"Yes, I know," Not-Anthea replied coolly. Of course she knew. You don't just magically control CCTV cameras and get people in cars without knowing their names, you thought. 

"Any point in asking where I'm going?" John asked. You sighed through your nose. Why would there be? 

"None at all..." Not-Anthea confirmed, smiling blandly at John and turning back to her phone. "...John."

"Okay." John shifted uncomfortably in his seat again and you resisted the urge to sigh again. 

It was a while later when the car finally pulled into an almost-empty warehouse. A reed-thin man with an unfortunately burgeoning stomach stood in the direct center, leaning nonchalantly on an umbrella. He was wearing a crisp suit, and you thought you recognized him from somewhere. The man in the suit watched you and John get out of the car. In front of the man was a straight-backed armless chair facing him. And his identity was on the tip of your tongue; you knew him from somewhere. Cursing yourself and your subpar memory, you wracked your brains as you and John slowly approached the man. 

"Have a seat John," The man said, and then it hit you. The dramatic stance, the theatrics of this whole excursion, the over-exaggerated put-togetherness, the crisp, cold voice. This was a Holmes. In your mind, you saw the very same climbing up and down the stairs of 221B Baker Street. You could hear his and Sherlock's voice from your tiny flat. Mycroft Holmes. And on the rare occasion that Sherlock mentioned him, it was always with the manner of a petulant five-year-old. You'd yet to officially meet Mycroft Holmes, but you'd seen him a few times by now. John continued limping forward.

"You know, I've got a phone," John told him conversationally, his tone unruffled and mild as he glanced about the warehouse. 

"I mean, very clever and all that, but er ... you could just phone me. On my phone." John continued pointedly. You snickered softly and Mycroft shot you an analyzing glare, but then looked back to John sternly when John sauntered past the chair and instead stopped a few feet away from the man.

"When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet, hence this place," Mycroft replied coolly before shooting a glance at John's cane. "The leg must be hurting you. Sit down." His tone had been passably civil -- on par with your expectations of a Holmes -- but by his last two words, he'd lost all semblance of civility.

"I don't wanna sit down." John's voice still retained its calm and firm nature and you felt a brief admiration for that, especially when Mycroft looked at him curiously.

"You don't seem very afraid." Mycroft seemed almost mystified by this, and you had to agree with him there. Before realizing that he was a Holmes, you'd been a little off-put by the whole strange situation. 

"You don't seem very frightening."

Mycroft chuckled. "Ah, yes. The bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?"

"Rude," you muttered under your breath and started toward the other two. Mycroft shot you another stern look before transferring that same expression over to John.

"What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"

So that was what this was about? Sherlock? Would every damn thing be about Sherlock Holmes tonight? John looked back at you, looking for an answer. You gave him a shrug. Turning back to Mycroft, John replied.

"I don't have one. I barely know him. I met him ..." John paused thoughtfully for a long enough time that you finished his sentence.

"You met him yesterday," 

"It feels like longer," John said to you, a startled expression on his face.

"Yeah," you agreed. "I feel like Sherlock has aged me fifty years," you laughed.

"Mmm, and since yesterday you've moved in with him and now you're solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?" Mycroft interjected, his face impatient.

"Who are you?" John asked finally.

"An interested party." 

Oh my god, you thought to yourself. He's just as dramatic as Sherlock. Their poor mother. It wasn't until John stared at you in utter confusion and you realized Mycroft was glaring at you that you realized you'd spoken aloud.

"Oh, did I speak aloud?" You asked unnecessarily. "Sorry, Mycroft, it's been a long day. And I'm hungry. I meant to run to the grocer's but crime came a-calling. And then I was going to grab some on the way back to Baker Street, but you had to come in your car and be all mysterious and time-consuming, and now the grocer's is most certainly closed." You frowned. This night had already been too much. John looked like he was on the verge of laughter and Mycroft was turning a worrying shade of puce. You really hoped Mycroft wasn't about to suffer an untimely heart attack because you certainly had no intention of helping John save his life and death would complicate your plans to find food as soon as possible.

Turning back to Mycroft determinedly, John pushed his queries. "Interested in Sherlock? Why? I'm guessing you're not friends."

"You've met him. How many 'friends' do you imagine he has? I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having."

"And what's that?"John asked.  
"An enemy." Mycroft straightened his tie and ignored you when you snorted. This was ridiculous. An enemy? Please.  
"An enemy?" John repeated incredulously. You guessed he hadn't caught what you'd say about "their poor mother."  
"In his mind, certainly. If you were to ask him, he'd probably say his arch-enemy. He does love to be dramatic." Mycroft said stiffly. You rolled your eyes and John looked pointedly around the warehouse. 

"Well, thank God you're above all that," you said sarcastically and Mycroft frowned at you.

"Don't think I don't know who you are, Y/N," He told you sternly. And you were about to reply, but then your phone and John's dinged. You both automatically pulled your phones out to look at the message.

Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. SH

"I hope I'm not distracting you," Mycroft said coldly, likely irritated that you weren't paying him enough attention if he was anything like Sherlock. 

"No, of course not," you looked up. "I'm multitasking. Like your... assistant. I'm very good at dealing with two dramatic grown children simultaneously." 

Mycroft's glare was livid.

"I worked as a camp counselor for toddlers for a couple summers," you continued, shooting him a cheeky grin. Mycroft looked like he might strangle you.

"Not distracting me at all," John said casually, sliding his phone back into his jacket pocket and effectively not de-escalating the situation at all. 

"Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?" Mycroft asked, his voice irritated and clipped.

"I could be wrong... but I think that's none of your business." 

"It could be," Mycroft said this ominously enough that a shiver ran down your spine. 

"It really couldn't," John replied firmly and you nodded in agreement. 

"If you do move into, um ... two hundred and twenty-one B Baker Street, I'd be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way." Mycroft pulled out a notebook from his inside pocket and consulted it as he spoke.

"Why?" John frowned, uncomfortable again. 

"And why didn't you offer this to me when I first moved in?" You added absently, curious for the sake of being curious. Mycroft ignored you.

"Because you're not a wealthy man,"

"In exchange for what?"

"Information. Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you'd feel ... uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he's up to." 

"Oh for the love of --" you began but then John cut you off.

"Why?"

"I worry about him. Constantly." Mycroft said this so tonelessly that you had had to raise your eyebrow, not buying it.

"That's very nice of you," John volunteered insincerely, his voice dripping with some diluted version of disdain.

"But I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned. We have what you might call a ... difficult relationship."

"You're a helicopter mother," You pointed out. "It's really not that difficult."

Your phone and John's dinged again.

If inconvenient, come anyway. SH

"No," John told Mycroft.

"But I haven't mentioned a figure," he protested

"Don't bother."

"You're very loyal, very quickly.," Mycroft gave a short, harsh laugh.

"No, I'm not. I'm just not interested." John put his phone away.

Yours dinged again.

Where are you? SH.

I'm occupied by another Holmes. 

Where are you? SH.

You sighed softly and your head shot up to tune back in when Mycroft said,

"Could it be that you've decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people?"

"Who says I trust him?"

"You don't seem the kind to make friends easily."

"Well, you're not exactly one to talk," you said pointedly. Mycroft shot you a glare. "What? Did you think I would call you a well-adjusted person? We're standing in the middle of an abandoned warehouse in almost total darkness and you're trying to stalk your brother by bribing a doctor." 

"Are we done?" John asked impatiently. Mycroft looked steadily into John's eyes.

"You tell me." 

John looked at him consideringly for a long moment and then turned and started to walk away. 

"I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him, but I can see from your left hand that's not going to happen."

At this, John stopped dead and his shoulders tensed. You moved forward quickly to try and catch his reaction, and, if need be, to hold him back from doing anything rash. Before you could reach him, though, he turned back to face Mycroft, his face positively savage, his teeth bared.

"My what?"

"Show me," Mycroft commanded in that same eerily flat manner, planting the tip of his umbrella on the dusty floor and leaning on in casually. He looked like someone who was used to getting his way. And John looked contemptuous, decidedly stubborn. He raised his left hand and planted his feet.

The message was clear: if Mycroft wanted to look at John's hand, he'd have to come to John. You watched with interest until your phone dinged.

Where are you? SH.

Baker Street. Come at once. SH.

And then:

Are you ignoring me? SH.

Where are you? SH. 

"Oh for the love of --" you stalked out of the warehouse, unnoticed by John and Mycroft, both too preoccupied with whatever pseudo-pissing contest in which they were partaking. 

I'm currently occupied.

You sent that. You weren't ignoring him, but that didn't mean you weren't harboring some anger at your squabble earlier that evening. Behind you, Mycroft suddenly spoke a little bit louder.

"Time to choose a side, Doctor Watson." You heard his footsteps approach you. "And I'll be seeing you again soon, Y/N," Mycroft continued, a little ominously, as he sauntered out of sight. 

You looked across the warehouse at John and gave him a tiny smile, trying to laugh off that threatening farewell. John stood fixed to the spot for a few seconds before he shook himself out of his thoughts and came over to you.

A beat later, the same black car pulled up smoothly and Not-Anthea got out gracefully.

"I'm to take you home," Not-Anthea announced without looking up from her BlackBerry. Your phone and John's dinged once more.

Could be dangerous.  
SH 

It always was, you thought, and you steeled yourself for another encounter with the ever-enigmatic Sherlock Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Leave kudos or comments if you wish!


	9. Molly Isn't You

The car ride back to 221B was uneventful, for the most part, excepting a cringe-inducing half-hearted attempt by John to ask Not-Anthea out and a quick run to the grocers.

You carried your groceries inside your tiny flat and then sighed when you heard John go up the stairs. Sitting down on a counter stool in your kitchen, you groaned and leaned over, pressing your forehead against your counter. Suppressing another heavy sigh, you got back up and tried to organize yourself. Right, groceries had to be put up... and dinner... and then a shower. And then bed, you thought to yourself. Yes, bed. And tomorrow would bring another round of reports at the lab. It was hard to believe it was only Tuesday; the week felt like it'd gone on forever.

Your phone dinged, vibrating against the counter. You ignored it, shelving your groceries and debating whether or not you should order takeaway or try and be an adult and prepare yourself an actual meal. Takeaway was winning the debate when the footsteps came pounding down the stairs.

"Christ above," you muttered, trying to ignore it. The impatient knocking -- though knocking was gentler term than what it really was -- came not twenty seconds later. "No, no, no," you shook your head. And then your locked twisted of its own accord and tumbling in came a mass of curly hair and dark coat.

Righting himself, Sherlock straightened and turned to you imperiously. He opened his mouth to say something, but then John came into view from the stairs.

"Hang on! You bought me -- and Y/N -- here to send a text?!" John's face tightened into a mixture of anger and incredulity. Sherlock didn't turn to look at John as he replied, oblivious to John's ire, pushing himself into your flat.

"Text, yes. The number on my desk,"

Because Sherlock was making his way toward you, he couldn't see the look John was giving him. You knew that look. That was the Can-I-get-away-with-murder-and-it-be-justified look. He stood like that for a moment before turning and stomping angrily up the stairs, presumably to send whatever text Sherlock wanted him to send.

"Why are you here, Sherlock?" You asked coolly and he stopped in front of you.

Sherlock frowned. "Why wouldn't I be?" he asked.

You looked at him contemplatively.

"As you have said, you don't have friends. You have John to attend to potential medical needs, and if you were really desperate for a pathologist with whom you could exchange ideas, Molly would surely do. So, I'll ask again, why are you here?"

You and Sherlock lapsed into silence for a long moment.

"Molly isn't you," he finally said softly, looking at you intensely. You were going to try to point out that he didn't answer the question when John came storming into your flat.

Sherlock turned to him, and asked mildly, "What's wrong?"

"Just met a friend of yours," John said slowly, carefully.

Sherlock frowned, either in horror or confusion, you couldn't quite tell, though the incredulity was clear in his voice.

"A friend?"

"An enemy," John clarified. Sherlock relaxed so quickly that it was almost comical.

"Oh? Which one?" he asked disinterestedly, brushing past where you stood by your counter to go to your pantry. John followed him, loping across your flat and past you.

"Your arch-enemy, according to him." He paused and turned back to you. "Do people even have arch-enemies?"

You shook your head, pursing your lips. "No, they don't."

Sherlock shot you a curious look and then narrowed his eyes suspiciously at John.

"Did he offer you money to spy on me?"

"Yes," John replied, taken aback, watching as Sherlock rummaged through your pantry.

"Did you take it?" Sherlock's voice was sort-of muffled as he continued sorting through your pantry.

"No."

"Pity. We could have split the fee. Think it through next time." Sherlock stepped out of the pantry and passed you a packet of blueberries. When you shot him a questioning glance, he added, "You should eat."

John cleared his throat. "Who is he?"

Softly, still looking at you with something that could be concern in his eyes, Sherlock said, "The most dangerous man you've ever met, and not my problem right now." Turning to face John again, he said, more loudly, "On my desk -- the number?"

"Yeah, I have it," John grumbled sorting through his coat pockets and pulling it out. "Jennifer Wilson?" his brow crinkled. "That was... Hang on. Wasn't that the dead woman?"

"Yes," Sherlock waved his hand around vaguely. "That's not important. Just enter the number."

John shook his head and dutifully typed the number into his phone.

"Are you doing it?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes,"

"Have you done it?" he pressed urgently.

"Ye... hang on!"

"Give him a second Sherlock," you cautioned him gently. Sherlock turned to you severely. 

"You should eat the blueberries, you haven't eaten since lunch. And you always get... irritable without food." He turned back to John. "Now, these words exactly: 'What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out.'"

You rolled your eyes and opened up the packet of blueberries, popping a few in your mouth before you wandered into your bedroom, intent on changing into some more comfortable clothes. You set the blueberries down and quickly stripped down, out of your business casual attire you'd worn when you popped into the hospital early in the morning to do some work (because you had an actual, legitimate job, that required you to be present in a place of work, unlike some people you knew). You pulled on a light sweater and a pair of leggings and then you sat down on your bed. You were tempted to give up on the whole idea of showering and dinner and just curl up in bed and sleep. Absently, you leaned back against your pillow and popped a few more blueberries in your mouth. Sleep was looking more and more attractive with each passing second. Presently, the words and murmur of Sherlock and John's conversation which had been in the back of your mind came to the forefront when you heard John exclaim,

"Sorry, what are we doing? Did I just text a murderer?! What good will that do?"

A phone, presumably his, began to ring. You heaved yourself off the bed; you couldn't go to sleep just yet, if only because you had two other people in your flat, one of whom was liable to not lock the door behind him. Dragging yourself to the kitchen, you heard Sherlock speak over the ringing.

"A few hours after his last victim, and now he receives a text that can only be from her. If somebody had just found that phone they'd ignore a text like that, but the murderer ..." Sherlock trailed off dramatically until the phone stopped ringing. "... would panic."

"Have you talked to the police?" John asked after a moment. Sherlock let out a scoff.

"Four people are dead. There isn't time to talk to the police."

"So why are you talking to me?"

Sherlock reached the door and dramatically flipped his coat collar up.

"Mrs. Hudson took my skull. And Y/N isn't being cooperative." He shot you a glare and you --unable to resist -- stuck your tongue out at him.

"So I'm basically filling in for your skull?" John pressed, indignant.

Sherlock shot him a smirk, gathering his scarf in his hands. "Relax, you're doing fine." When John didn't move, Sherlock added, "Well?"

"Well, what?" John stared at Sherlock blankly, looking a little like a lost puppy.

"Well, you could just sit there and watch telly, like Y/N." Sherlock's face crinkled up in disgust.

"Don't knock it till you try it," you responded, brushing off his insult. So what? You liked telly. The Great British Bake Off was quality television and nobody -- Sherlock Holmes included -- could or would convince you otherwise. 

"What, you want me to come with you?" the surprise was evident in John's tone. 

"I like company when I go out, and I think better when I talk aloud. The skull just attracts attention, and Y/N looks settled in for the night, so ..." Sherlock trailed off, a little uncertain, and you felt a pang of sympathy. John smiled briefly at this.

"Problem?" You asked mildly. 

"Yeah, Sergeant Donovan."

"What about her?" you interjected irritably; you thought you'd made your feelings on that wench clear before.

"She said..." John trailed off a little uncomfortably, looking a Sherlock. "She said you get off on this. You enjoy it."

"And I said 'dangerous,' and here you are." Sherlock pointed out nonchalantly before he turned and abruptly walked out the door, not bothering to close it behind him. John stood there thoughtfully for a minute, leaning on his cane, before angrily straightening and heading toward the door to follow Sherlock.

"Damn it!"

You sighed heavily again as your door thudded to a close and you plopped down back on the stool. Pouring out the last of the blueberries, you shoved them in your mouth and regarded the empty bag thoughtfully.

As much as you hated to admit it, Sherlock had been right.


	10. Let's Go To Dinner

You stared down at the empty bag of blueberries and sighed. There was not a single bone in your body that wanted to go follow Sherlock out. At least, that's what you were telling yourself. But the thought of getting up and actually cooking was repugnant, so instead, you sat in the kitchen, immobile and utterly unproductive.

A moment later, your phone dinged.

Northumberland's Street. Billy's. -SH

Why?

The blueberries weren't enough.-SH

There were times when you thought you loved Sherlock -- when he made his brilliant deductions when he put people in their place, but there were other times when you could not, for the life of you, stand that arrogant detective. This was one of those times. Admittedly, it'd been a rough night for you two and your whatever-it-was relationship.

The blueberries were fine.

Come have dinner. The blueberries were not fine. -SH

He was right, of course. And you hated him very much in that moment for being right. Nevertheless, you found yourself slipping on sensible shoes and a long jacket to go over to Angelo's Restaurant. You liked Angelo, even though you knew that Sherlock only got free food because he'd proved that Angelo was innocent of murder. That being said, the food was good, and it was free. You walked into the restaurant and sat down next to Sherlock just as he said,

"Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Keep your eyes on it."

"He isn't just gonna ring the doorbell, though, is he? He'd need to be mad." John furrowed his brow and looked surreptitiously over his shoulder.

"He has killed four people," you pointed out.

"Very true, Y/N," Sherlock replied, flipping his coat collar up.

Angelo came over to the table then, wading out from the kitchen.

"Sherlock," Angelo shook Sherlock's hand. "And Y/N, too!" He offered you a hug, which you tentatively accepted. "You're looking lovely as always."

"Thanks, Angelo."

"Anything on the menu, whatever you want, free." Angelo laid a couple menus on the table. "On the house, for you and for your date."

A laugh burst from you, relishing Sherlock's utter indifference and John's indignant shock.

"They do make a lovely couple, don't they?" you jibed teasingly. Sherlock swept a hand vaguely in your direction, grazing your arm.

"Do you want to eat?"

Before you could reply, John looked at Angelo with a frustrated expression and opened his mouth to speak,

"I'm not his date."

"This man got me off a murder charge," Angelo said, happily ignoring John's denial. John stared at Angelo, still apparently with absolutely no idea who that man was. You jabbed an elbow into Sherlock's side and he straightened up, clearing his throat.

"John, this is Angelo," Sherlock paused while John and Angelo shook hands. "Three years ago I successfully proved to Lestrade at the time of a particularly vicious triple murder that Angelo was in a completely different part of town, house-breaking."

"He cleared my name."

"I cleared it a bit." Sherlock clarified cooly, looking down at the menu. "Anything happening opposite?"

"Nothing," Angelo replied, looking back at John. "But for this man, I'd have gone to prison.

You frowned in confusion. "Didn't you go to prison anyway?"

Nobody acknowledged you, to your great irritation, and you huffily looked down at the menu in front of you.

"I'll get a candle for the table. It's more romantic," Angelo told John.

"I'm not his date!" John called out indignantly. "Why does everyone think we're dating?" He huffed under his breath and you tried to contain the smile that was involuntarily curling your lips upward.

"You may as well eat; we might have a long wait," Sherlock announced.

"You realize I'm not staying here all night, right?"

Sherlock crinkled his brows at you.

"Then why are you here?"

"You invited me to dinner. So that is why. I'm here to have dinner. And then, I'm going to go home and go to bed." You told him, a trace of sternness in your tone.

"Bed? Boring, Y/N! We've a serial killer who's desperate for acknowledgment on the loose!"

"Yes, it's all fantastically exciting," you deadpanned as Angelo came back and set a tea-light on the table and gave John a thumbs-up before going back into the kitchen."

"Isn't it?" You forgot that for all Sherlock's nearly obscene intellect, the concept of sarcasm sometimes eluded his grasp. Sighing, you settled in to wait.

Billy, the waiter, came by to take your order, and then you waited another twenty minutes before your food arrived. You ordered for Sherlock, as he couldn't be bothered to look away from his watch on out on the street. It was another few minutes after the food came before someone broke the silence.

"People don't have arch-enemies," John said to the room at large. You raised an eyebrow and elbowed Sherlock in the ribs.

"I'm sorry?" Sherlock looked around at you and you jerked your head in John's direction.

"In real life. There are no arch-enemies in real life. Doesn't happen." John stabbed his food with his fork firmly. You weren't sure if John believed what he said, or if he was just trying to rationalize Sherlock's rather extraordinary existence. Beside you, Sherlock had gone back to staring out the window disinterestedly.

"Doesn't it? Sounds a bit dull."

"So who did I meet, then?" John looked at you, baffled.

"What do real people have, then, Y/N, in their 'real lives'?"

You rolled your eyes.

"Stop being obtuse, Sherlock," you muttered under your breath at the same time John said.

"Friends; people they know; people they like; people they don't like ... Girlfriends, boyfriends ..." John trailed off uncertainly.

"Yes, well, as I was saying – dull." Sherlock drummed his fingers against the table.

"You don't have a girlfriend, then?" You didn't miss the glance John shot in your direction.

"Girlfriend? No, not really my area." Sherlock continued staring out the window. You felt the same sensation as earlier -- that uncomfortable churning in your gut, and once more, you couldn't explain it.

"Mmm." John murmured and then lapsed into silence for a moment, before realizing the potential significance of Sherlock's statement. "Oh, right. D'you have a boyfriend?"

This time, you didn't need to poke Sherlock before he paid attention; at John's words, Sherlock looked at John sharply, his face almost severe.

"Which is fine, by the way," John raised his hands placatingly, smiling reassuringly.

"I know it's fine," Sherlock said, disgruntled, and for a second, you saw a petulant little child instead of a fully grown man.

"So you've got a boyfriend then?"

"No." Sherlock's tone was flat. And John looked at you for help, his smile fossilizing and becoming awkward.

"Right." John cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. "Okay. You're unattached. Like me." He looked down at his plate, evidently out of things to say, and you prayed that he would just drop the whole subject. Alas, it was not meant to be. "Fine." John cleared his throat again. "Good."

John looked down at his food and dig back in. He did sort of look like he wished the floor would open and swallow him up. Her lock looked at John suspiciously for a moment but then turned his attention back to the window. It took Sherlock a moment, and he seemed to be replaying John's words in his head. Then he straightened and looked at you worth a startled expression on his face. You raised your eyebrow curiously. Sherlock fidgeted and looked at you again, an urgent message in his eyes, but one that you couldn't read. And then Sherlock opened his mouth.

"John, um ... I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I'm flattered by your interest, I'm really not looking for any—" the words were coming awkwardly but rapidly, and by the time John cut Sherlock off, they were near a babble.

"-No," John interrupted, looking a little panicked. He turned his head briefly to clear his throat. "I'm not asking. No." John paused and looked at Sherlock sincerely. "I'm just saying, it's all fine."

Sherlock stared at John for a moment, his eyes inscrutable, and then he nodded decisively.

"Good. Thank you." Sherlock toned closed the conversation, and he went back to watching the street. John looked back down at his food, his expression bemused.

Silence reigned for a long moment, and you stabbed at your pasta, appetite gone.

"Look across the street. Taxi."

You followed Sherlock's gaze to the task that has parked at the side of the road with its rear toward the restaurant.

"It's stopped," you breathed softly.

"Exactly, Y/N. Stopped. Nobody getting in, and nobody getting out."

There was a make sitting in the backseat, peering around the side windows as if looking for something in particular.

"Why a taxi?" Sherlock murmured to himself. "Oh, that's clever. Is it clever? Why is it clever?"

 

"That's him?" John very conspicuously turning around to stare out the window. You stifled a sigh.

"Don't stare." Sherlock chastised him.

"You're staring," John argued. And oh, today just wasn't your day. You started in again on your pasta.

"We can't both stare, because I'm already looking, and Y/N is --" Sherlock poked your arm. "Y?N, he's outside."

"Yes, Sherlock," you agreed, stabbing your fork into your pasta. "I can see that." You took a big bite and prayed that Sherlock wouldn't decide to up and run after the cab. 

But, no. Sherlock immediately got to his feet, grabbing his scarf, and headed for the door. He paused and motioned toward you, 

"Are you coming?"

You looked down mournfully at your unfinished dinner. No, it really wasn't your day.


	11. Can I Please Just Eat My Dinner?

There really was no other option, you told yourself as your feet pounded against the pavement, shins throbbing. If Sherlock had gone alone -- and you knew he would have -- there's really no telling what could happen. He could be hurt, you thought, vaulting yourself up stairs. You listened and watched as the taxi had driven off and Sherlock had figured out how best to catch the cab. Unfortunately, that meant a lot of running. A little behind, you heard John huffing and sprinting after you.

And anyway, you'd already run outside when Sherlock had haphazardly taken off and promptly been hit by a car. You tried to tell yourself that you were merely a little alarmed because you would be upset by any person getting hit by a car, but that wasn't quite true, was it? Your heart had quite literally stopped in your chest, and your breath got caught somewhere in your throat.

Not that your concern mattered, because Sherlock simply rolled over the bonnet and twisted back to beckon you to him. As the driver of the car slammed his horn, you'd skirted around the car to Sherlock's side.

John came up to you and Sherlock as the three of you watched the cab pull away.

"I've got the cab number," he painted out. Sherlock glanced at John flatly.

"Good for you."

You elbowed Sherlock and he caught you arm before bringing it down to your side, his face a mask of concentration. And then the commands were rapidly flowing out of his mouth.

"Right turn, one way, roadworks, traffic lights, bus lane, pedestrian crossing, left turn only, traffic lights." He lifted his head and glanced over your shoulder. And then, his hand still gripping your arm, Sherlock Holmes was once again dragging you behind him.

You shook off his grip when Sherlock shoved a man out of a doorway, and you paused to apologize on Sherlock's behalf before chasing Sherlock up the stairs. Somewhere behind you,  
John was pounding his way up the stairs as well, and then you followed Sherlock out onto the roof.

"Come on, John," Sherlock called over his shoulder as he checked to make sure you and John were still with him. And then Sherlock was running again, flying over and sliding down metal stairs and then scrambling to the next building. You followed him almost blindly, not even stopping to consider the ramifications of your actions when you leapt across a gap between two rooves and stumbled. 

Heart stopping you almost missed Sherlock whirling around and catching your arm before he looked up at John, who was hovering uncertainly at the precipice, staring down at the gap.

"Come on, John. We're losing him!" Sherlock yelled, aggravated, and you watched John back up and then make the jump. Once he landed, you were running again, gliding down stairways and flinging yourselves off ledges and into alleyways before picking up the pace and sprinting again.

You needed to exercise more, you thought to yourself. This type of habit was not something you could uphold; your breath was coming in short spurts and your calves positively burned. This was why you'd gone to medical school, you reminded yourself, instead of becoming a personal trainer. Sherlock barrelled down the alleyway toward D'Arblay Street, and then you and he both emerged from the alley just in time to watch the taxi drive past the end, turning left.

"Ah, no!" Sherlock exclaimed angrily, not even breaking his stride as he suddenly veered right. You marveled at his ability to speak clearly as you doubted you'd be able to get more than a word or two out without gasping. "This way, Y/N," he shouted, not turning to look at you, and then when John instinctively turned left, Sherlock yelled, "No, this way!"

"Sorry." John gasped out, turning to follow you and Sherlock. The three of you headed down more alleyways and side streets, running until you thought your lungs would burst and then running more. And then Sherlock was hurling himself ahead of you, into the street, and crashing into another car bonnet. You swore, cursing Sherlock and the taxi driver as the brakes squealed in protest. You worry turned out to be unnecessary; Sherlock scrabbled off the bonnet and reached into his left coat pocket, pulling out an I.D. badge that looked suspiciously similar to Lestrade's. Sherlock flashed it at the driver as he ran to the right side of the cab. 

You raced to his side, eyes scanning instinctively for injuries. There was no doubt that Sherlock would most certainly bruise, and would bruise badly, but you didn't think that he had broken anything. 

"Police! Open her up!" he commanded, panting, as he tugged open the rear door, coming face-to-face with an anxious-looking passenger. Sherlock straightened up almost immediately, looking exasperated.

"Sherlock?" You tilted your head at him, trying to figure out what had irritated him.

"No," Sherlock shook his head slightly and then leaned down to look at the passenger a second time. "Teeth, tan: what – Californian?" Sherlock glanced down at the luggage. "L.A., Santa Monica. Just arrived."

Sherlock straightened, grimacing, and look at you and John, who'd caught up just a second after you'd reached Sherlock.

"How can you possibly know that?" John exclaimed incredulously. You noticed that his cane was missing. Sherlock was right again, then, you thought with an inexplicable surge of smugness; John's limp was psychosomatic. 

"The luggage," Sherlock replied dismissively, before turning back to the passenger, who was sitting there with wide, confused eyes. "It's probably your first trip to London, right, going by your final destination and the route the cabbie was taking you?"

The passenger shot a glance and you and John, his eyes lingering for a moment on you. "Sorry -- are you guys the police?"

"Yeah," Sherlock agreed easily, flashing Lestrade's I.D. briefly at the tourist. "Everything all right?"

"Yeah." The passenger smiled uncertainly, his eyes darting to you againand then back to Sherlock. Sherlock narrowed his eyes then, and you wondered what he was thinking.

"Welcome to London," Sherlock said sharply, his tone anything but friendly, a hideously fake smile plastered on his face. And then Sherlock spun away from the car, catching your wrist and pulling you a few yards away. You heard John say after an awkward pause,

"Er, any problems, just let us know," after which you heard the door of the cab slam shut. You stared up at Sherlock's face, trying to decipher the harsh lines of his brows, which were furrowed. To your surprise, he met your gaze, meeting your eyes almost challengingly.

"Are you alright?" the words came out soft, quiet in the night air, and unexpected. You nodded.

"Yes. Are you?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Y/N," Sherlock scoffed, releasing your wrist. You were tempted to trace his cheekbone under the streetlight but thought better of it. Stupid, you chastised yourself. 

"That doesn't answer my question," you pointed out, not ready to let the discussion go.

"Yes, Y/N. I am -- quite clearly -- unharmed." Sherlock stated flatly. That still didn't answer your question, and you considered pushing the issue. But then John came up to you and Sherlock.

"Basically just a cab that happened to slow down," there was a shade of disappointment in his tone. Sherlock turned to face John, letting out a huff of irritation.

"Basically."

"Not the murderer," John ventured, his mouth twitching in something akin to frustration. You held your tongue and reached out to touch Sherlock's forearm reassuringly. Not that you thought that would help. Much. 

"Not the murderer, no." Sherlock agreed, his tone exasperated, his fingers tapping against his left leg rapidly. But you noticed he didn't shake off your touch. 

"Wrong country, good alibi," John muttered with a slight smile after a moment. This did nothing to cheer Sherlock's spirits. 

"As they go," Sherlock muttered dismissively, his shoulders slightly hunched. He was disappointed, and frankly, you were too. You'd left your dinner all for a literal wild chase. 

And that was why you were disappointed. It had absolutely nothing to do with the way Sherlock's shoulders caved in, the way his walk, so commanding and confident earlier, was now slower and less dominating. It had nothing to do with the frustration in his eyes. At least, that is what you were going to keep telling yourself. 

"Hey, where-where did you get this? Here." John reached for the I.D. badge and Sherlock threw it to him carelessly.

"Right." John did a doubletake at the name on the card. "Detective Inspector Lestrade?"

You didn't miss his bewilderment, but Sherlock did, replying without missing a beat.

" Yeah. I pickpocket him when he's annoying. You can keep that one, I've got plenty at the flat."

John stared down at the card again and then he giggled silently, shaking his head in what you imagined was an amused disbelief. 

"What?" Sherlock shot another sharp glance at John.

" Nothing, just: 'Welcome to London.'" John let out another little chuckle and you joined him. 

"Indeed," you shook your head at Sherlock, amused too, and he met your gaze indulgently before letting a little chuckle out himself. His eyes paused on your face, and for one second, you thought something might happen, but then a police officer -- a real one -- caught Sherlock's eye, having come up the street to investigate why a cab was stopped in the middle of the road. You watched as the passenger got out of the cab and then pointed at your trio. Sherlock gripped your hand, and your heart literally stopped again. This was new. But Sherlock wasn't looking at you; he was looking at John.

"Got your breath back?" 

"Ready when you are," John replied. 

Sherlock spun you around and then began sprinting away, pulling you with him. Your shortness of breath had nothing to do with exertion now.


	12. Not My Division

Back at 221B, you had a full intention of taking a scalding shower and then going to bed. But once more, your plans were bound to be derailed. Because once you walked into your flat, you could hear the footsteps in Sherlock's. And not just footsteps; furniture was crashing, things were being thrown, and you heard the sound of voices floating down to your flat. There was no way you'd be able to go to sleep.

Resigning yourself to the fact that you had lived the longest day ever, you walked back into the hallway, where Sherlock was saying that John invaded Afghanistan, and John and Sherlock were laughing.

"That wasn't just me," John pointed out mirthfully. Sherlock chuckled and then met your gaze.

"Y/N?"

John, not hearing Sherlock's query, continued. " Why aren't we back at the restaurant?"

"Oh, they can keep an eye out. It was a long shot anyway." Sherlock became more serious, waving his hand dismissively John furrowed his brow.

"So what were we doing there?"

Sherlock cleared his throat, a note of discomfort in his voice.

"Oh, just passing the time." You shot a sharp look at Sherlock and he avoided your gaze, looking at John instead. 

"And proving a point," Sherlock said pointedly. You shook your head slightly, trying to figure out what Sherlock was referring to.

"What point?" John sounded bewildered.

"You." His limp, you realized as Sherlock whirled toward Mrs. Hudson's front door. "Mrs. Hudson! Doctor Watson will take the room upstairs."

You were considering taking it and freeing yourself of Sherlock's incessant pacing in the middle of the night. Casting a glance at John, you realized that you wouldn't wish your circumstances of Sherlock bothering you late at night on anyone else. 

"Says who?" John cried out, his voice indignant. Sherlock dramatically flung his gaze to the door. 

"Says the man at the door." 

On cue, three knocks sounded from the door. Thinking it through, you guessed it was Angelo come to return the cane. Sure enough, when John answered the door, Angelo was standing outside, cane and a bag in hand.

"Sherlock texted me," Angelo explained, gesturing vaguely at Sherlock, who was leaning his head against the wall dramatically. But that wasn't anything new; just about everything Sherlock did was dramatic. The only person you'd ever met that was as... extra ... as Sherlock was his brother. "He said you forgot this," Angelo held out the cane to John, which John took after a moment of surprise. 

"Ah," John threw a look over his shoulder at Sherlock, who grinned smugly at him. "Er, thank you. Thank you." John made to close the door but then Angelo held up the bag in his hand and looked at you.

"I packaged you another serving of your pasta," he said, and you suddenly felt a surge of gratitude for the convicted criminal. As you reached out to grab the food, Angelo continued. "Sherlock told me to."

And with that, he turned and walked away from your doorstep. You shut the door quickly and turned to look at Sherlock but Mrs. Hudson was hurrying out of her flat, teary-eyed and flustered.

"Sherlock, what have you done?" she wrung her hands.

"Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock crinkled his brow, confused.

"Oh, Upstairs." Hrs. Hudson waved her hand wearily, looking like she might burst into tears at any moment. Without a word, Sherlock whirled around and ran up the stairs, John following him. You looked at Mrs. Hudson.

"Are you alright?"

"Quite, deary." Mrs. Hudson assured you, "Just been a long night," she turned and walked back into her flat.

"Tell me about it," you muttered under your breath, taking the stairs to finally investigate what all that noise had been about. 

Upstairs was a madhouse. Sherlock and Lestrade were arguing and Anderson -- that imbecile -- was actively trying to destroy what remained of Sherlock's kitchen. And there was John, in the middle of it all, stubbornly... defending Sherlock? Over recreational drug use? Gripping the plastic bag of takeaway more tightly, you walked into the flat a little further. 

"John, you probably want to shut up now." Sherlock was saying, anxiety twisting his tone. Almost as if his emotions controlled yours, anxiety shot through you. Pathetic, you told yourself. There really was no excuse for a reaction like that. 

"Yeah, but come on ..." John stared at Sherlock, who met his gaze seriously. Another heart-wrenching pain overtook you. You were disappointed, but not entirely surprised. Drug use. He used drugs. You hadn't explicitly known he used them but it made sense; he was always chasing a high. You just wished he could get it from something else. 

"No," you murmured softly, mostly to yourself. But Sherlock heard you, and he whirled to face you where you stood, just a step or two inside the doorway.

"What?" he sounded defensive and you couldn't quite figure out if you wanted to slap him for being stupid or hug him to wipe that defensiveness away. But then John began talking so you did neither. 

"You?" 

"Shut up!" Sherlock nearly shouted, sounding angry. You thought you detected something like hurt lurking under all that, but you couldn't be certain. "I'm not your sniffer dog," Sherlock told Lestrade defiantly, and Lestrade shook his head, nodding toward the kitchen.

"No, Anderson's my sniffer dog."

"What, An..." Sherlock turned his gaze to the closed kitchen doors, which then slid open, revealing more officers. Anderson stepped out into the living room and raised his hand in a sarcastic greeting. 

"Anderson, what are you doing here on a drugs bust?" Sherlock demanded, fury in his voice and rage in his eyes at the same time you said in the cattiest manner possible,

"I thought you'd be busy with Donovan while your wife was away?" 

"Oh, I volunteered." Anderson's tone was venomous, and he shot you a dirty glare that you returned wholeheartedly. Sherlock turned away from Anderson, to you, biting his lip angrily. You reached out and clasped his wrist, running your thumb along the inside of it. 

"They all did. They're not strictly speaking on the drugs squad, but they're very keen." Lestrade explained, and you released Herlock's wrist, stepping back as Donovan came out of the kitchen with a small glass jar in her grip. 

"Are these human eyes?" Donovan sounded horrified. You would have laughed at her, but laughter was hardly appropriate at the moment, so you swallowed your amusement at her expense like a true adult. 

"Put those back!" Sherlock commanded, looking almost vulnerable and sounding offended.

"They were in the microwave!" Donovan protested. And that, you thought grimly, was why Sherlock came down to your flat at two in the morning to use your microwave. You prayed he had put food in there, and nothing ... fleshy. Making a mental note to bleach out your microwave, you tuned back into the conversation. 

"It's an experiment," Sherlock explained, sounding very much like a petulant five-year-old. You could almost see him as a little boy, all adorable and endearing arrogance and floppy curls. And those cheekbones, you caught yourself thinking as you stared at Sherlock unabashedly. Blushing a little, you looked down, thankful that Sherlock was too busy yelling at Lestrade to notice you. 

"So let's work together." You caught Lestrade saying placatingly, trying to calm Sherlock. "We've found Rachel." Lestrade met your gaze over Sherlock's shoulder, and if you didn't know better, you would have thought he was asking you to come and help him calm Sherlock down.

Hmm, you thought. Not my division. You deliberately sashayed over to the kitchen table, brushing in and out of Sherlock's sight, but you didn't say anything.

You briefly considered trying to find a skeleton and then scare Donovan, but decided against it. Setting your takeaway down and praying that you'd have a chance to eat it soon, you prepared yourself for the next phase of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is also on Wattpad.


	13. You Lower the IQ of the Whole Street

"Rachel?" The word left your mouth before you could stop it.

"Who is she?" Sherlock pressed, scrutinizing Lestrade.

"Jennifer Wilson's only daughter."

"Her daughter? Why would she write her daughter's name? Why?"

Deciding now was the perfect time to inject and flaunt his dazzling intellect, Anderson spoke up.

"Never mind that. We found the case." Anderson pointed to the pink suitcase in the living room. "According to someone," Anderson shot the most obviously pointed look you'd ever seen at Sherlock. "The murderer has the case, and we found it in the hands of our favorite psychopath.

"Really? It was in your kitchen?" You raised your eyebrow challengingly and Anderson made a face. You continued, "Thanks for bringing it by..." You paused, deliberately sweeping your gaze over Anderson critically. "Though, on second thought, I'm not sure you qualify as our favorite psychopath."

Anderson shot you a dirty look.

"I'm not a psychopath, Anderson. I'm a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research." Sherlock shot back disparagingly, a trace of defensiveness still coloring his tone. He turned back to Lestrade. "You need to bring Rachel in. You need to question her. I need to question her."

"She's dead," Lestrade replied flatly, looking apprehensive. You certainly weren't expecting Sherlock response, which was an almost hissed, 

"Excellent!" Sherlock paused, whirling to Lestrade. "How, when and why? Is there a connection? There has to be."

Lestrade shook his head. "Well, I doubt it, since she's been dead for fourteen years. Technically she was never alive. Rachel was Jennifer Wilson's stillborn daughter, fourteen years ago."

A short wave of sadness passed over you at that; the poor Pink Lady. You couldn't imagine the pain of losing a child. John, too, grimaced and turned away. But Sherlock looked confused.

"No, that's ... that's not right. How ... Why would she do that? Why?"

"Why would she think of her daughter in her last moments?" Anderson scoffed in condescending disbelief. "Yup – sociopath; I'm seeing it now."

For one faltering moment, you thought that Sherlock might actually have lost some part of his humanity to say something like that but then you realized Sherlock focused on something else entirely -- something, to your mild dismay -- that had nothing to do with love.

"She didn't think about her daughter. She scratched her name on the floor with her fingernails. She was dying. It took effort. It would have hurt."

Sherlock began pacing, pushing you out of the way of his path. 

"You said that the victims all took the poison themselves, that he makes them take it. Well, maybe he ... I don't know, talks to them?" You ventured, shoving Sherlock back when he neared you. "Maybe he used the death of her daughter somehow."

Sherlock stopped and stared at you. "Yeah, but that was ages ago. Why would she still be upset?" 

He said it so blandly, so innocently, and with a total lack of sympathy, that you could do nothing more than stare at him. Sherlock hesitated then and looked around, realizing that everyone in the flat had fallen silent. Looking awkwardly back at you, Sherlock paused, his face flicking in uncertainty.

"Not good?" he asked you. You swept your glance along the room before looking back at Sherlock.

"Bit not good, yeah," you murmured, frowning, and Sherlock shook it off, turning to look at John.

"Yeah, but if you were dying ... if you'd been murdered: in your very last few seconds what would you say?"

"'Please, God, let me live.'" He replied without missing a beat. You slid your gaze over to John, where he stood stoically, his expression firm. He spoke from experience, you realized.

"Oh, use your imagination!" Sherlock exclaimed, exasperated. John's face hardened, a quick flash of pain passing through his expression before disappearing entirely.

"I don't have to."

Sherlock paused, taking another look at John and then blinking a few times, he shuffled his feet and offered John an apologetic expression, rare for him, you thought.

"Yeah, but if you were clever, really clever ... Jennifer Wilson running all those lovers: she was clever." Sherlock started pacing again. "She's trying to tell us something."

Mrs. Hudson came bumbling into the door then, much more composed now.

"Isn't the doorbell working? Your taxi's here, Sherlock." 

"I didn't order a taxi. Go away." Sherlock didn't even pause, pacing faster. Mrs. Hudson cast her gaze around the room, distress seeping back into her countenance.

" Oh, dear. They're making such a mess. What are they looking for?"

"It's a drugs bust, Mrs. Hudson," you replied softly, and were thoroughly surprised when Mrs. Hudson anxiously said,

"But they're just for my hip. They're herbal soothers." 

You exchanged a shocked look with John and were about to comment when Sherlock froze, his face set in concentration, brows low, mouth tight. He looked attractive, you realized, even with his off-putting manner. You wished he wouldn't speak so that you could be allowed to admire him for a moment without it being spoilt by his mouth. 

"Shut up, everybody, shut up! Don't move, don't speak, don't breathe. I'm trying to think. Anderson, face the other way. You're putting me off."

"What? My face is?!" he squawked indignantly, glaring at Sherlock. Anderson looked at Lestrade as if to say, can you believe this? Lestrade sighed, defeated.

You knew the feeling. Nobody could resist Sherlock's persistence.

"Everybody quiet and still." Lestrade looked at Anderson pleadingly. "Anderson, turn your back."

"Oh, for God's sake!" he scoffed, not moving. Lestrade's tone became stern, his face firm.

"Your back, now, please!"

"Come on, think. Quick!" Sherlock came to a stop by you, muttering under his breath. From your other side, Mrs. Hudson pressed,

"What about your taxi?"

"MRS. HUDSON!" Sherlock had lost his temper, and, as worried you were for him, you couldn't handle it much longer, either. You considered following Mrs. Hudson as she hurried down the stairs, away from the self-proclaimed sociopath, who'd frozen once more. 

"Oh." He smiled in delight. "Ah! She was clever, clever, yes!" Waving his hand vaguely at the room, he continued. "She's cleverer than you lot and she's dead. Do you see, do you get it? She didn't lose her phone, she never lost it. She planted it on him." Sherlock began pacing again. "When she got out of the car, she knew that she was going to her death. She left the phone in order to lead us to her killer." 

"But how?" Lestrade asked, confusion marring his face.

"Wha...? What do you mean, how?" Sherlock met Lestrade's blank expression with one of his own. Lestrade shrugged self-consciously. "Rachel!" Sherlock looked at everyone, triumph blazing in his eyes. John looked at you; you shrugged. Looking at you Sherlock strode over to where you stood.

"Don't you see? Rachel!" 

You shook your head, still clueless. Sherlock laughed incredulously and then doubled back to look at you again. You thought you heard a soft sigh.

"Oh, look at you lot. You're all so vacant. Is it nice not being me? It must be so relaxing." Sherlock's demeanor became more stern. "Rachel is not a name."

Feeling impatient and fed up with his antics, you shot back, "Then what is it?"

"On the luggage, there's a label. E-mail address -- John?" Sherlock looked over at John who dutifully read out the address on the label.

"Er, jennie dot pink at mephone dot org dot uk."

Sherlock planted himself down at the dining table and was searching his tablet. 

"Oh, I've been too slow. She didn't have a laptop, which means she did her business on her phone, so it's a smartphone, it's e-mail enabled." From your vantage point, you could see that he'd pulled up Mephone's website and was typing the Pink Lady's email address in the 'username' box. "So there was a website for her account. The username is her e-mail address ..." he began to type in the 'password' box, " ... and all together now, the password is..."

"Rachel," you breathed coming to stand behind him.

"So we can read her e-mails. So what?" Anderson scoffed, willing to let this fact go.

You rolled your eyes. How someone that dense had made it into any sort of respectable position was beyond you.

"Anderson, don't talk out loud. You lower the I.Q. of the whole street." Sherlock waved his hand dismissively at Anderson, irritable. "We can do much more than just read her e-mails. It's a smartphone, it's got GPS, which means if you lose it you can locate it online. She's leading us directly to the man who killed her."

You weren't Sherlock, so you didn't see. Sighing, you figured the night would stretch on for another infinite stretch of time, and now your body refused to let you continue gallivanting around with Sherlock Holmes. You made your way toward the door and slowly let yourself out.

You could hear the voices floating down, Lestrade and Sherlock and John all speaking. Mrs. Hudson brushed past you, heading back up to the flat. You'd reached the bottom of the stairs and directly in front of you, the front door gaped open.

The cool, wet night air was breezing in, raising the hairs on your arm. Standing in the middle of the doorway was an older gentleman, wearing a frumpy sweater and glasses. He had a cell phone in his hands. Catching your eye, he gave you a little wave and grin.

Uneasily, you smiled back, and slowly backed down the hall toward your flat. You'd made it a few steps when the man stepped inside the building.

"You, Miss -- is Sherlock Holmes here?" He asked, his tone friendly enough. You nodded, trying to figure out what it was about the man that gave you the creeps.

Clearing your throat, you continued. "Yes, he's just upstairs,"

"Thank you, Miss...?" 

You merely smiled and gripped the plastic bag in your hands a little tighter, watching as he slowly made his way up the stairs, leaving the front door wide open. Abruptly, the man stopped and typed a little message on his cell phone before sliding it into a sweater pocket. He made his way back down to the ground level and turned to you.

"You wouldn't happen to need a cab, would you, Miss?" He asked, his tone affable, but something in his eyes was wrong. 

"No, thank you," you forced your lips into a tight smile. "Not tonight,"

"Well," the man reached into his breast pocket and took a few steps toward you. "In the event you find yourself needing a cab, here's my card." He handed you a crisp business card. "That's Bohemian stationery, you know." 

Without waiting for a reply, he strode to the front door.

"It was nice meeting you, Y/N." And with that, he swept the door closed. 

You froze in the hallway because you had not told that man your name. Staring at the door for another long moment, trying to shake off the chills, you almost missed it when Sherlock came barrelling down the stairs, hurrying toward the door.

"Where are you going?" You caught the sleeve of Sherlock's coat, trying to stop him for a moment. Sherlock looked at you, his expression unreadable and then he shook you off briskly. 

"Fresh air. Just popping outside for a moment. Won't be long." The words Sherlock said ran together, fast and jumbled. You thought his tone sounded almost excited.

"Do you want me to come with you?" you asked, narrowing your eyes slightly, concerned by his sudden shift in behavior.

"No," Sherlock said firmly and you tried to ignore the sharp pang of rejection that shot through you. It was fine, you told yourself. Really.

"You sure you're all right?" John called out from the stairway.

"I'm fine," Sherlock replied breezily as he hurried down the stairs.

You considered chasing after him, but then that flat no clanged in ears again, so you picked your bag of takeaway up and made your way back to 221C.


	14. You're Not Bored Now, Are You?

Walking back into your flat, you shut the door softly and then leaned against it, sliding down to the floor. You closed your eyes and leaned your head back against the door. You sat there for a moment, trying to ignore the faint sound of voices and the footsteps from upstairs. You hoped they would leave soon. Deciding to shower, you dutifully put your takeaway on the counter and went to the bathroom. In the shower, you tried to shake off the pulsing feeling of rejection, ignoring the twisting in your stomach. But no matter how scalding you made the water, you couldn't burn out the sound of Sherlock saying "no." 

You didn't know why it bothered you so much. Logically, you told yourself, you shouldn't be upset; Sherlock had never really bothered forming a strong connection with you. But no matter what you told yourself, you couldn't shake off the dejected feeling in your gut. Turning off the shower irritably, you roughly toweled yourself off and put on a pair of sweatpants and a ragged t-shirt from your high school days. 

Making your way back to the kitchen, you twisted your hair up and out of your face before putting the takeaway pasta in the microwave. You'd just sat down with your dinner when the knocking came at your door. 

"No. No. No, no, no," You groaned, punctuating each no with a soft slam of your forehead against your palm. "NO." 

The knocking persisted.

"Ugh," you sighed heavily, irritably. You picked up your plate and silverware and continued eating as you made your way to the door. Opening it abruptly, you asked coldly, "Yes?"

Lestrade and John both stood in the hallway, John looking worried and Lestrade uncomfortable. 

"Er -- right, so sorry to bother you, Y/N," Lestrade rubbed the back of his neck and you tried to resist rolling your eyes, shoving another forkful of pasta into your mouth. "But, you see," Lestrade cleared his throat; you raised an eyebrow expectantly. The next words out of his mouth better not be Sherlock, you thought venomously.

"It's Sherlock," He continued. You considered throwing your plate but decided against it because there was still food on it.

"What about him?" You stabbed your fork into the pasta.

"Well, he's just gotten in a cab," John said, shifting his weight. 

"And?"

"Y/N. I've known Sherlock Holmes for five years, but you know him better than I."

"Me?" You raised your eyebrows. "I've only known Sherlock for about a year and a half. Why should I know him better?"

At this moment, Mrs. Hudson wandered into the hallway, out of her flat. She caught the tail-end of your remark and decided to add her two cents.

"You know Sherlock quite well, dear. Don't think I haven't heard your midnight rendezvous."

John and Lestrade both stared at you in shock, and you felt your ears burning up. Blushing, you closed your eyes.

"That's not what it sounds like," you finally managed to say, voice squeaking. "Sherlock just kind of -- comes in? Unannounced?" You cringed, and Lestrade, evidently taking pity on you, nodded. 

"Right, well," John shrugged, turning to Lestrade. "If you don't know Sherlock that well, why do you put up with him?"

"Because I'm desperate, that's why," Lestrade sighed, and then looked at you meaningfully. "And because Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And I think one day if we're very, very lucky, he might even be a good one."

You sighed, resigned. Lestrade turned and walked out the door, and John looked at you before going back upstairs. 

It took a few minutes before anxiety set in. You were washing your dishes when suddenly your gut was telling you to find Sherlock. It took you another minute before you decided to listen. Hating yourself, you shoved your feet back into sensible shoes and then stormed up the stairs, hoping that John hadn't already left.

To your surprise, John was still in the flat, frozen in place by the living room door, holding Sherlock's tablet. The tablet was beeping, and John had narrowed his eyes at it.

"John?" you queried, shaking him out of his concentration.

"Y/N," John frowned, glancing back down at the tablet. "I think we have to go find Sherlock,"

You nodded and craned your neck -- the tablet screen was still on the mephone website, and the site was still searching for Jennifer Wilson's phone. 

"Let's go," you agreed, pausing while John grabbed his cane -- unnecessary, you'd noticed -- and then you both hurried down the stairs and to the sidewalk.

****

It took you five minutes to hail a cab, and all the while your heart was thumping anxiously, and John was determinedly staring at the tablet screen, but you'd finally gotten into the cab. Taking the tablet from John, you began to give the cab driver instructions. Beside you, John was talking into his phone. 

"No, Detective Inspector Lestrade. I need to speak to him. It's important. It's an emergency!"

"Left here, please! Left here," you shouted to the cabbie, forcing him to make a sharp left and throwing you and John to the right side of the car. 

Several more anxious minutes passed with you silently urging the cab driver faster, occasionally giving out hurried, increasingly less civil, instructions. You arrived at Roland-Kerr College not ten minutes later. Looking down at the map, you shook your head in frustration. The map's help ended here; it wasn't specific enough to indicate exactly where the phone was. Disembarking hastily, you and John shared a look before glancing back out at the two identical buildings.

"Split up?"

"And look for clues?" You offered cheekily, but John just gave you a confused look. "Yeah, let's split up. I'll take this building," you gestured at one of the buildings.

"Right. I'll take the other," John replied, jogging away. 

You took off in the other direction. Sprinting inside the door, you ran through corridors, tearing upstairs, breathlessly gasping out Sherlock's name. Your breathing was so labored and your heart beating so rapidly that you almost missed the faint carrying of voice down the hallway. 

Straightening up and taking another deep breath in, you pushed yourself forward.

"....if I don't choose either? I could just walk out of here," you heard Sherlock say. Rounding around the corner, you saw the murderer -- the cabbie? What the hell? -- lifting up a pistol and pointing it at Sherlock through an open door.

"You can take your fifty-fifty chance, or I can shoot you in the head," he said amiably. Sherlock smiled confidently, calm. The man continued, "Funnily enough, no-one's ever gone for that option."

"I'll have the gun, please," Sherlock replied blandly, a smile still pasted on his face. Fear raced through your veins, and you hurried toward the duo.

"Are you sure?

"Definitely. The gun."

"You don't wanna phone a friend?"

"Sherlock," you muttered, but he couldn't hear you. 

"The gun," you heard him say. But then the cabbie's mouth tightened and he squeezed the trigger. A small flame burst out of the muzzle and Sherlock's smug smile grew wider. You stopped dead in your tracks, relieved. 

They hadn't caught sight of you yet, though you were mere yards away. 

"I know a real gun when I see one," Sherlock told the cabbie, who released the trigger, extinguishing the flame. 

"None of the others did." You detected bitterness in the cabbie's tone.

"Clearly." Sherlock stood up and walked toward the door. "Well, this has been very interesting. I look forward to the court case." 

His stride faltered though when he caught sight of you. You imagined you looked half-mad, all red-faced and out of breath, hair still tangled and wet from your shower. 

Behind Sherlock, the cabbie put the gun down and spoke.

"Just before you go, did you figure it out ..." Sherlock half-turned toward the cabbie, "... which one's the good bottle?"

"Of course. Child's play."

"Sherlock," you interjected, stress coloring your tone. Sherlock shot you a glance and then moved so that you were blocked from the cabbie's view. 

"Well, which one, then?" 

"Sherlock," you murmured a little more insistently. He ignored you.

"Which one would you 'ave picked, just so I know whether I could have beaten you?" The cabbie pressed, and to your dismay, Sherlock slowly took a step back toward him. The cabbie chuckled. "Come on. Play the game."

You followed Sherlock into the room, watching as he reached out and swept the bottle nearest to the cabbie up. Sherlock walked back toward you, moving in front of you. The cabbie looked down at the remaining bottle, his eyes alight with interest but his tone flat.

"Oh. Interesting." He picked up the bottle and examined it. "So what d'you think? Shall we?" He paused looking at Sherlock almost eagerly, "Really, what do you think?" The cabbie stood up and faced Sherlock. "Can you beat me? Are you clever enough to bet your life? "

"Don't do it, Sherlock." you pleaded, "Let's walk out now," 

The man held up his pill and looked at Sherlock disparagingly. 

"I bet you get bored, don't you? I know you do. A man like you .."

Sherlock took the bottle of pills and unscrewed the lid. 

"Sherlock," you reached out and tried to take the bottle away from him. He pushed you back, murmuring lowly, 

"It'll be okay, Y/N," 

"...so clever. But what's the point of being clever if you can't prove it?" The cabbie was egging Sherlock on, his expression hungry. Sherlock raised the pill out of the bottle and held it to the light, scrutinizing it. 

"Still the addict," the cabbie continued, watching Sherlock carefully. Sherlock lowered the pill to eye level. "But this ... this is what you're really addicted to, innit? You'd do anything ... anything at all ..."

Sherlock's fingers, you noticed, were starting to tremble. 

" ... to stop being bored," the cabbie breathed out. Slowly, Sherlock moved the pill toward his mouth and the cabbie matched the movement.

"You're not bored now, are you?" Their hands got closer to their mouths. Smiling in sick amusement, the cabbie added, "Innit good?"

And then time froze at the sound of a gunshot. All of the sudden, the cabbie was on the floor, a bullet going through his chest into the wall behind him. Sherlock dropping his pill in surprise and hurried to the window. The window in the opposite building was open, but nobody was in sight. John, you realized. 

The cabbie coughed and Sherlock turned back, looking briefly at him and then going over and snatching one of the fallen pills from the ground. The cabbie breathed heavily and coughed, blood spreading out on the floor beneath him. Bending down over the cabbie, Sherlock shook the pill in his face.

"Was I right?" The cabbie stared at Sherlock blankly, perhaps in disbelief. You knew you were. "I was, wasn't I? Did I get it right?" The cabbie didn't reply and Sherlock hurled the pill across the room, standing abruptly. "Okay, tell me this: your sponsor. Who was it? The one who told you about me – my 'fan'. I want a name."

Sponsor? But there wasn't time to ruminate on that now.

"No," the cabbie protested weakly. 

"You're dying, but there's still time to hurt you. Give me a name," demanded Sherlock. The cabbie shook his head and Sherlock grimaced angrily. Lifting his foot, you watched in horror and Sherlock put it on the man's shoulder. The cabbie gasped in pain. "A name." Sherlock's tone was harsh and unforgiving. The cabbie cried out in pain. "Now."

The cabbie continued to whine in pain. Sherlock's face was sharp in the shadows, his expression intent and manic. He leaned his weight onto his foot. The cabbie whimpered pitifully. 

"Sherlock," you breathed.

Sherlock didn't hear you. 

"The NAME!" He stomped his foot into the cab driver's shoulder, his voice furious. You tried to hold back your cries of alarm. 

"MORIARTY!" The man finally screamed, his eyes closing and head rolling to the side a few seconds later. You almost felt bad for him, but then you remembered he'd tried to kill Sherlock and you felt significantly less sympathetic. 

Sherlock, meanwhile, turned his head away, looking reflective. You stood there, staring blankly at the body until Sherlock came over to you and wrapped his arm around your shoulder.

"See?" He pressed a soft kiss to the side of your head. "I told you it would be okay."


	15. Let's Go Home

You shivered slightly in the night air, wrapping your arms around yourself. Beside you, Sherlock sat on the back steps on an ambulance. A paramedic wandered over a put an orange blanket around Sherlock's shoulders and he frowned. Smiling to yourself at his antics, you sat down beside him.

"Why have I got this blanket?" He gestured aggravatedly at the blanket. "They keep putting this blanket on me," he continued, sounding indignant. You smiled.

"It's for the shock," you explained, bringing your knees up to your chest. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

" I'm not in shock." Sherlock pointed out, still indignant.

"Yeah, but some of the guys wanna take photographs," you looked pointedly at a photographer wandering about and Sherlock rolled his eyes again watching Lestrade as he approached.

"So, the shooter. No sign?" Sherlock asked as Lestrade came to a stop in front of you.

Lestrade shook his head.

"Cleared off before we got 'ere. But a guy like that would have had enemies, I suppose. One of them could have been following him but..." Lestrade shrugged carelessly, "...got nothing to go on."

Sherlock gave you an incredulous glance-- as if to ask you can you believe this man? -- and then turned back to Lestrade.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that,"

You and Lestrade rolled your eyes simultaneously.

"Okay," you sighed. "Do tell," You rubbed your arms around yourself again. Sherlock stood whisking his shock blanket off and then putting it around your shoulders before he began moving slightly, taking tiny paces.

"The bullet they just dug out of the wall's from a handgun. Kill shot over that distance from that kind of a weapon - that's a crack shot you're looking for, but not just a marksman; a fighter," Sherlock concluded, glancing at Lestrade to make sure he was paying attention. "His hands couldn't have shaken at all, so clearly he's acclimatized to violence. He didn't fire until I was in immediate danger, though, so strong moral principle. You're looking for a man probably with a history of military service ..." Sherlock paused, looking around the area. You followed his gaze to John Watson, who stood some distance away. "... and nerves of steel ..."

Sherlock trailed off, eyes narrowing at John who looked back innocently and then turned away. John's hand reached back and rubbed his neck. Uncomfortable, you realized. And then the dots connected, but before Lestrade could ask any questions, Sherlock was speaking again.

" Actually, do you know what? Ignore me."

Lestrade blinked, startled. "Sorry?"

"Ignore all of that," Sherlock waved his hand around vaguely, reaching back to grab your arm. "It's just the, er, the shock talking."

Gripping your arm more tightly, Sherlock tugged you up and started walking toward John.

"Where are you going?" Lestrade called out behind you. Sherlock showed absolutely no signs of responding, so you half-turned to call back,

"WE're just going to talk -- about what happened?"

"But I've still got questions for you." Lestrade protested, taking a few steps in your direction.

Sherlock whirled around irritably, flinging the shock blanket off your shoulders and brandishing it menacingly at Lestrade. Well, as menacingly as anyone could brandish a bright orange aluminum-foil like flap of fabric.

"Oh, what now? I'm in shock! Look, I've got a blanket!" He waved the blanket around more dramatically. Your trio was attracting stares, you noticed, especially those of Donovan's and Anderson's. You glared right back, though.

"Okay," you heard Lestrade agree placatingly. "Okay. We'll bring you in tomorrow. Off you go."

Sherlock walked away, grabbing your wrist to tow you alongside him.

"Do you need this?" He asked abruptly.

"What?" You looked at him curiously.

"The blanket," Sherlock crumpled the blanket up in his free hand.

"Oh," you shook your head. "No."

Sherlock nodded and then tossed the blanket through the open window of a car and ducked under the police tape, holding it up for you as you followed. John fidgeted more as you approached.

"Um, Sergeant Donovan's just been explaining everything, the two pills. Been a dreadful business, hasn't it? Dreadful."

You and Sherlock considered him for a moment.

Finally, Sherlock said quietly, "Good shot.

"Yes. Yes, it must have been --"

"You're a terrible liar, John," you interrupted him. "You've got to get the powder burns out of your fingers, anyhow."

John glanced down at his fingers in mild surprise.

"You noticed that?" John shook his head. "Sherlock's rubbing off on you, Y/N."

You made a weird choked sound in the back of your throat, not knowing how else to react.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock asked John and John nodded.

"Yes, of course, I'm all right."

"Well, you have just killed a man." you pointed out and Sherlock's fingers tightened around your wrist.

John started to say something and then stopped, considering. After another moment of silence, John finally just said, "But he wasn't a very nice man."

Sherlock nodded in agreement.

"No. No, he wasn't really, was he?"

John responded, and he and Sherlock continued their banter. The three of you started walking, but you couldn't quite focus on all that because Sherlock was nonchalantly twining his fingers with yours. Your steps faltered as you realized something.

"You were gonna take that damned pill," you gasped. You'd known, of course, in the moment, that Sherlock fully intended on seeing his game to the end, but it hadn't sunk in until just now. Sherlock stopped and turned to face you.

"Course I wasn't. Biding my time. Knew something would turn up."

"No," you disagreed, eyes narrowing. "You didn't. You -- Sherlock Holmes! -- you risk your life to prove you're clever."

"Why would I do that?" Sherlock replied, a trace of amusement in his eyes.

"Because you're an idiot," you grumbled. You thought you saw Sherlock smile out of the corner of your eye. "C'mon. Let's go home."

John was ahead of you, but he'd paused on the sidewalk, staring at a car that had pulled up next to the curb. Not-Anthea stepped out first, followed by Mycroft Holmes.

"Sherlock." John breathed. "That's the man I was talking to you about."

Sherlock gazed at Mycroft impassively. "I know exactly who that is."

Anger glinted in his eyes and became known in his stride as it widened, forcing you to move faster. John glanced around to see where everyone else was.

"So, another case cracked." Mycroft commented, "How very public-spirited ... though that's never really your motivation, is it?

"What are you doing here?"

"As ever, I'm concerned about you." Despite the flat tone with which Mycroft delivered this statement, you detected some genuine emotion.

"Yes, I've been hearing about your 'concern'." Sherlock replied irritably. You gripped his hand more tightly and didn't miss the quick glance Mycroft shot at your intertwined hands.

"Always so aggressive. Did it never occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?"

"Oddly enough," Sherlock started sarcastically, "NO!"

"We have more in common than you like to believe. This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer ... and you know how it always upset Mummy." Mycroft straightened his jacket.

"I upset her? Me?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows incredulously. Mycroft glowered back. "It wasn't me that upset her, Mycroft."

"No, no, wait. Mummy? Who's Mummy?" John looked bewildered. You sighed.

"I thought we covered this earlier," you interjected, losing patience once more. "That's Sherlock's brother."

You wished you had a camera because the look on John's face was priceless. In the background, Sherlock and Mycroft were bickering. Children, you thought. Absolute children. Five-year-olds.

Sherlock suddenly snorted, bringing you out of your head.

"Close enough." You squeezed Sherlock's hand questioningly and looked down at you. "Mycroft is -- to a criminal mastermind."

"Oh," you nodded, watching Mycroft as he adjusted his suit.

"For goodness' sake. I occupy a minor position in the British government."

"He is the British government when he's not too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis." Sherlock contradicted, pulling you a step forward, away from Mycroft, who sighed. "Good evening, Mycroft. Try not to start a war before I get home. You know what it does for the traffic."

Sherlock began whooshing away in that typical dramatic fashion of his and you half-turned to Mycroft. You bid him a hasty goodnight before falling into step with Sherlock, who was grinning like an idiot.

"What are you so happy about?"

"Moriarty," Sherlock replied, eyes alight.

"Moriarty?" you echoed softly, the word ringing out ominously in the night air.

"I've absolutely no idea," Sherlock replied cheerfully. You walked another few meters in a comfortable silence. After another few moments, Sherlock grinned down at you, squeezing your hand.

"Come on then, Y/N. Let's go home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Episode One is finally done!


	16. Ignoring It All

After that whirlwind of a night -- and it had only wound up being a night -- your life went almost completely back to normal. St. Bart's was as mundane and routine as ever, and Molly was as wonderfully consistent as she always was. Mrs. Hudson seemed in a better mood after John moved in, and everything sort of fell into place. It was early gray mornings and drizzly afternoons and the smell of cheap coffee from the hospital cafeteria. You were as busy as ever, running through cases and analyses. 

Not much had changed, you reflected often, sometimes wistfully. On days when you took a lonely cab ride home, you wished something had changed. Sherlock had gone back to the way he was before; somewhat cold and inept at picking up social cues. He still stopped by the lab several times a week, and every now and again he'd bring you coffee, but beyond that... Sherlock was married to his work.

He pitter-pattered and paced about in the middle of the night. Twice in the past eight days, he'd burst into your apartment uninvited. Once was at two in the morning, whereupon he woke you up to tell you all about how he'd just solved a case. You thought you might bite his head off after that, and weren't surprised when he'd come wandering into the lab at St. Bart's eight hours later with a cup of coffee for you in his hand. The second time had been infinitely mortifying; he'd burst in just as you walked out of your bathroom, having finished a shower. You purposefully avoided Sherlock for a week after that. It wasn't until Sherlock texted you asking you why you were avoiding him that you realized that Sherlock really didn't care about you being mostly naked.

There wasn't much more to life in the few weeks that dragged on after the case. Everything seemed to fall into another normal routine and you became much better at ignoring the occasional butterflies that stirred up. It helped, of course, that you rarely saw Sherlock, aside from him popping in at the lab and into your apartment. 

You rarely ever spoke for more than a few moments at a time, and you managed to convince yourself, at the end of two weeks, that you would be successful at ignoring Sherlock and the reactions he provoked in you. And you were, even if life became unbearably dull and you found yourself wishing to see Sherlock and what he was up to.

Nevertheless, you focused on your job, on the maintenance of your flat, on Mrs. Hudson's hip, everything aside from the enigmatic detective upstairs that literally kept you awake at night.


	17. Interesting...

You hadn't spoken to Sherlock in quite some time. Since John moved in, he'd stopped bothering you as much, especially after the shower incident (this reaction was probably due to an explanation given to Sherlock by John). You tried not to let his absence get to you, opting to go out to and spend more time with Molly. Which was a much better idea in theory than in practice, you discovered. Molly, despite being a really very sweet person, invariably brought the conversation back to the very topic you'd been hoping to avoid. Pushing yourself away, you told yourself, would keep you from getting too involved. And you tried to ignore the little bitterness that kept sprouting up when you thought about John. He'd become the person that Sherlock went to. Before that'd been you. Granted, it was not your choice then, but it'd still been you.

You told yourself that it didn't bother you, and for the most part, it didn't. Well, that is, until this morning. You'd come home from a late night at St. Bart's. A side-effect of having John was that Sherlock was suddenly becoming productive and uncovering dead bodies every which way. Which translated into more work for you. You'd arrived home at two in the morning and had promptly collapsed into your couch, too exhausted to do much more, and fell asleep. Until a particularly loud bang woke you up.

Bolting upright, you whipped your head around to locate the noise. There were several more thundering clomps and you look up, realizing that the noise was coming from Sherlock's flat.

"Jesus Christ," you muttered to yourself, straightening out your hair. You were going to ignore the sounds, but as they continued, you figured you should check and make Sherlock wasn't terrorizing John or Mrs. Hudson. The door to his flat was slightly ajar, and the unmistakable sounds a scuffle were coming through. You peeked through the door to see a man with a sword and a scarf covering his face trying to hack Sherlock to death. Sherlock, for his part, was doing an excellent job of not getting killed, even if he was being shoved into the kitchen with a blade at his throat. You realized -- a split-second too late -- that you should probably help Sherlock.

He and the masked man disappeared into the kitchen and you sprinted forward, grabbing the skull off the mantlepiece. You heard the sound of the blade scraping the table at the same time the skull left your hand, hurtling toward the masked man's head.

The skull thudded against the back of the man's head, and he turned to face you, allowing Sherlock to quickly slip out of harm's way. You waved awkwardly, peddling back a few steps. Should have thought about this more, Y/N. The masked man stepped forward menacingly, brandishing his sword.

Behind you, Sherlock launched himself over John's chair and you gasped loudly, pointing and the man whirled, giving you enough time to knock the blade from his hands and let Sherlock land a very neat uppercut to the man's chin. The man's head jerked back and you hastily threw yourself out of his trajectory as he collapsed onto the floor.

Sherlock sniffed and straightened his suit jacket disdainfully, staring down at the masked attacker.

"Dreadfully rude, coming in like that, don't you think, Y/N?"

A smirk curled up the corner of your lips and you met Sherlock's gaze.

"Positively horrid. What do they teach the criminal classes these days?" you agreed, scanning him over to see if he was injured.

"I'm quite alright, Y/N," Sherlock's gaze slid back down to the man. He paused for a moment considering. "You know, I'd thought I'd seen just about every type of hand-to-hand combat, but I've never seen a headbutt like that."

"Hmm?"

"The skull, Y/N?" Sherlock cracked a rare smile, looking amused. "You threw my dear friend at an intruder."

"Dear friend?" You scoffed. "Who do you think you are, Hamlet?"

Sherlock wasn't listening anymore, staring back down at the man. 

"I suppose we have to take care of the body, then?" You stared at the unconscious man.

"We?" Sherlock looked up at you and shook his head decisively. "No, I'll take care of it. You go back to bed; you need your sleep, especially considering you've barely slept these last few days."

"You sure?" You didn't bother asking Sherlock how he knew any of that. Sherlock met your gaze and nodded. 

"Go to bed, Y/N." He ushered you out the door and gently pushed you toward the stairs. Shaking your head resignedly, you made your way back to your flat and curled back up into bed. Belatedly you realized that it hadn't even occurred to you to wonder why on earth there was a machete-wielding maniac in Sherlock's living room, and you made a note to yourself to ask Sherlock about that later.

 

***

It was some hours later when you woke up, and only because there was an incessant banging at the door.

"Y/N?" Sherlock's voice sounded muffled. The knocking suddenly stopped and then a few seconds later you heard the door click open. You rolled over in bed, blearily glancing up to see Sherlock's silhouette in your doorway. "I'm going to the bank."

"Okay?" You frowned, bemused. 

"I need you to come with me."

That caught your attention and you sat up.

"What? Why?" You kicked your covers off and stood up. "Where's John?"

Sherlock hesitated, and you turned to face him, pausing on the walk to your closet.

"Well, John was going to come you see, but then he actually went out to go get groceries."

"Oh," You opened the doors to your closet, blocking Sherlock from your line of sight. "Well, thank God for that." You huffed a laugh and pulled the leggings you'd been wearing off. 

"Y/N?" Sherlock sounded impatient now.

"Hold on," you cautioned him, shimmying into a pair of dark jeans and a pulling on a sweater. "I was just changing." You stopped, grabbed a pair of socks, and then turned back to him.

"Okay, let's go."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and strode out the door -- which you noticed with narrowed eyes that he had left ajar in his hasty entry in -- leaving you to shove your feet into your trainers and hurry out after him.

The cab ride was short and you wondered again at having Sherlock come and get you. He was perfectly capable of handling whatever it was by himself; that's what he'd done before you. But now he stared blankly out the window, watching the city pass by in the gray blur. That was unlike him, to not speak to you at all in the cab. You'd been in enough cabs with him by now to know that something wasn't quite right. 

"So..." you cleared your throat. "We're going to the bank?"

"Yes," Sherlock jerked his head down. 

"Why?" 

Sherlock swallowed.

"A case, of course, Y/N."

"Of course," you let the note of disbelief sink in your tone and you turned to stare out the other window, facing away from Sherlock. 

When the cab pulled into the drive of a corporate office, you shifted uncomfortably. This was not a case from Lestrade, then. You and Sherlock walked into the building and up the escalator in silence. At the front desk, Sherlock stopped.

"Sherlock Holmes," he introduced himself, tone serious. 

The receptionist hastily stood up. 

"Of course, right this way, Mr. Holmes and..." she trailed off looking at you.

"Ms. Y/L/N," you supplied, stuffing your hands in your pockets. 

"Right," The receptionist nodded. "Well, this way, then," She spun on her heel and guided you through the office floor to a smaller, personal office where a secretary sat out front. She too stood.

"Good morning, Mr. Holmes," the secretary stood and ushered you and Sherlock into the office. For a long moment, the three of you stood in uncomfortable silence. You scrutinized Sherlock, who'd flipped his collar up and was staring out the window again. Then the door opened and a thirty-something man in a suit came striding in. He grinned at Sherlock.

"Sherlock Holmes,"

Sherlock nodded stiffly. "Sebastian."

They shook hands, and Sebastian stepped back.

"Howdy, buddy. How long's it been? Eight years since I last clapped eyes on you?"

Sherlock looked back at him with poorly disguised dislike. They knew each other then... Eight years ago, Sherlock would have been... in uni. But they weren't friends. You frowned a little, puzzled, and Sebastian turned to face you.

"This is my friend, Y/N Y/L/N," Sherlock said plainly, though you noticed the emphasis on the word friend. You shot a glance at Sherlock, increasingly confused. 

"Friend?" Sebastian sounded confused. That made two of you.

 

"Sure," you agreed lightly, taking Sebastian's hand and shaking it. 

"Right," Sebastian's eyes trailed you and your figure, but you couldn't tell if it was mere curiosity or appraisal. Both, judging by Sherlock, who'd balled his hands into fists. Letting go of your hand, Sebastian turned to sit down behind his desk. "Well, grab a pew. D'you need anything? Coffee, water?"

"No, thank you," you replied at the moment that Sherlock shook his head.

"No?" Sebastian looked at you and you shook your head in confirmation. To his secretary, Sebastian nodded, "We're all sorted here, thanks."

The woman nodded and made her exit, and the three of you sat down.

"So, you're doing well. You've been abroad a lot." Sherlock said plainly, his tone flat.

Sebastian shrugged. "Well, some."

"Flying all the way around the world twice in a month?" Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, and you thought you caught an undercurrent of irritation in his tone. You shifted, trying to understand the dynamic between the two of these men. Sebastian laughed and pointed at Sherlock as if reprimanding him.

"Right, you're doing that thing." Sebastian looked at you, evidently seeing your confusion. "We were at uni together. This guy here had a trick he used to do."

You felt a note of pride at guessing their association correctly, but that went away once Sherlock spoke, his tone quiet but defensive.

"It's not a trick." 

Sebastian ignored Sherlock. "He could look at you and tell you your whole life story."

"Yes," you narrowed your eyes, feeling protective for some reason. You didn't like Sebastian's dismissive tone. "I've seen him do it. It's very impressive."

Sebastian chuckled. "Put the wind up everybody. We hated him."

Sherlock looked down and blinked a few times and you absently reached out and patted his knee. Maybe you didn't know Sherlock that well, but you did know with absolute certainty that he was human, and there was no human on earth who wanted to hear that people hated him, and cared so little about his feelings that they would say it to his face. 

"Felt threatened by his intelligence, did you?" You shot back at Sebastian, hackles raising. 

Sebastian laughed nervously. "You'd come down to breakfast in the Formal Hall and this freak would know you'd been shagging the previous night."

Freak. We hated him. Such awful words. It was no wonder that Sherlock could be such an arsehole sometimes. 

"I simply observed," Sherlock muttered, his ears red. He was upset. You'd been around Sherlock long enough to be able to deduce that, and Sebastian was ignoring Sherlock's humanity. It did not bode well. 

"I think it's a rather incredible skill, he has." You interjected coldly, crossing your arms and leaning back in your chair. You narrowed your eyes at Sebastian, who looked a little unnerved. Good.

"Go on, enlighten me." Sebastian shifted in his chair and you narrowed your eyes a little more, trying to be threatening. "Two trips a month, flying all the way around the world – you're quite right. How could you tell?"

Sherlock opened his mouth, but Sebastian continued, his expression the strangest mix of smug and bitter.

"You're gonna tell me there was, um, a stain on my tie from some special kind of ketchup you can only buy in Manhattan."

"No, I..." Sherlock tried to interject, but Sebastian spoke over him.

"Maybe it was the mud on my shoes!" 

Sherlock stared at Sebastian in silence for a moment.

"Actually," his tone was dry. "I was just chatting with your secretary outside. She told me."

You frowned and Sebastian laughed humorlessly, color rising to his face. Sherlock gave him a sharp grin, and Sebastian clapped his hands together, trying to shake the sudden tension in the room. Sherlock had not spoken to the secretary, you knew, but Sebastian didn't.

"I'm glad you could make it over. We've had a break-in." Sebastian stood and led you and Sherlock across the trading floor toward a dor. "Sir William's office -- the bank's former Chairman. The room's been left here like a sort of memorial. Someone broke in late last night." 

Your brow furrowed. "What did they steal?" And why?

"Nothing," Sebastian shook his head. "Just left a little message."

He scanned a security card against the reader by the door and unlocked the room, gesturing you forward. Inside was a framed portrait of a man in a suit hanging on the wall and in front of that, a large, plain desk. Beside the portrait, spray painted in bright, garish yellow against the white walls, is some sort of tag graffitied onto the wall. It looked similar to the number eight, but the top was left open. On the portrait itself, is a yellow line sprayed horizontally along the eyes of the man. The line was not neat, and yellow paint dripped down the portrait. Sebastian stepped aside to let Sherlock pass and examine the wall, which he did. In silence. For about ten minutes. And all the while you stood there awkwardly, catching Sebastian taking the occasional appraising glance at you.

Eventually, Sherlock turned to Sebastian.

"Do you have the security footage from last night?"

"Yes, we do. Shall we head back to my office to review the tapes, then?" Sebastian ushered you out of the room quickly.

Back in the office, Sebastian set up the tapes and then stepped aside to let Sherlock examine them.

"Sixty seconds apart," Sebastian said, clicking the arrow key to show the transition from one slide to another. That was all it took; one picture the wall was unvandalized, the next it was. "So, someone came up here in the middle of the night, splashed paint around, then left within a minute."

Sherlock frowned. "How many ways into that office?"

"Well," Sebastian began, looking a little unnerved. "That's where this gets really interesting."

You sighed; it sounded like you were going to be here for a while longer. Absently, Sherlock patted your shoulder before following Sebastian out back to the front desk.


	18. Van Coon

Sebastian led you back to the reception area and showed you a screen with all the security information on it, the layout of the office blinking and clear.

"Every door that opens in this bank, it gets logged right here. Every walk-in cupboard, every toilet. "

"That door didn't open last night." You pointed out, frowning. Sebastian nodded, more at Sherlock than at you.

"There's a hole in our security. Find it and we'll pay you – five figures." Sebastian reached into his breast pocket and took out a cheque, handing it over in Sherlock's direction. "This is an advance. Tell me how he got in, and there's a bigger one on its way."

Sherlock's eyes flashed and he narrowed them. "I don't need an incentive, Sebastian."

Flipping up his coat collar in his trademarked dramatic fashion, he stormed away. You and Sebastian watched him go in an awkward silence.

"He's, um... Sorry about him." You finally said. "Don't think he ate much breakfast this morning. I'll take care of the cheque," you held out your hand, cursing Sherlock and his pride. Sebastian handed you the cheque.

"Thanks."

"Y/N -- it is Y/N, right?" Sebastian looked at you and you nodded. "Be careful about him. He's a real freak."

You bristled, a surge of protectiveness and anger bubbling in your chest.

"He's a talented detective and you need his help. I suggest you don't insult him, especially since you need him. There's no one else who can do what Sherlock does as quickly as he does it. Good day, Sebastian."

Taking a page from Sherlock's manual, you swept dramatically away, back over to Sir William's office, where Sherlock was taking photographs of the graffiti. Observing him silently, you realized your life would likely be significantly less complicated if he weren't in it. Then again, maybe complication was exactly what you wanted. You wanted something fun and dramatic and intense until Sherlock abruptly opened the window and stepped out on the window ledge.

"Sherlock! What the fu-"

"Relax, Y/N. I've had a thought." He bit his lip thoughtfully as he stepped back into the building and closed the window while your heart restarted. "I need you," he paused, pointing at you. "I need you to not move. Stand," he strode over to you and grasped the top of your shoulders and placed you directly in front of the graffiti. "Right here.:

You told yourself you were imagining the feeling of his hands lingering on your shoulders. And then promptly were reassured that your imagination was running rampant because Sherlock decisively whirled away and made his way to the opposite side of the trading floor. And then he began hopping. No, not quite. Dancing? No... He... well, he looked like a gopher, ducking down behind a desk, rising slowly upright, staring at you intensely, and then ducking sideways and hurrying across the floor, only to repeat the process. Most of the traders on the floor and the bystanders, yourself included, looked on in bemusement.

This went on for a solid five minutes, much to your chagrin. Sherlock scampered and twisted and wiggled around before finally backing toward an office on the other side of the floor. There, he stopped in the doorway and moved his head around, getting a different angle, before suddenly retreating into the office. You raised your eyebrows and craned your neck a little to see where he went, but there was no need; standing directly behind the desk chair of whoever worked in that office, he had a completely unobstructed view of you, and you of him. And then he was gone again, appearing for a split second in the doorway and then prancing away.

He stopped and slowly came out of the office, his brow furrowed. Absently, he flicked up the collar of his coat and you smirked. The game was on.

"Y/N."

"Yes?" You raised an eyebrow at Sherlock, who stood stiffly and with all the poise of a man who had been raised believing himself to be better than everyone else.

"Shall we?" He held out his arm to you invitingly, and you crinkled your brow, loping your hand around it. Parading past the reception desk, you waved good-bye and then tilted your face up to look at Sherlock.

"You're confused," Sherlock looked down at you, looked confused himself.

"Yes," You tilted your head to the side. "You're not usually one to initiate physical contact."

Sherlock swallowed, his Adam's Apple bobbing.

"Do you not like this?" He glanced down at your hand resting in the crook of his elbow.

"No, I like it," You blushed, not wanting to reveal to him just how much you liked it. "I was just thinking that it's a little..." you paused, trying to find the right words. "Out of character?"

"I don't think so." Sherlock sounded defensive now. "I do what I want. And that is not unusual."

"Okay," You agreed placatingly, falling into an awkward silence. You glanced back down at where your hand rested.

After a moment, you cleared your throat.

"Two trips around the world this month. You didn't ask his secretary; you said that just to irritate him."

Sherlock smiled knowingly but otherwise said nothing. You rolled your eyes.

"How did you know?" You pressed, curious, stepping off the escalator and into the lobby.

"Did you see his watch?"

"His watch?" You frowned. You hadn't exactly been thinking about his watch during your interaction with him. No, you realized with no small amount of embarrassment, you'd been thinking almost exclusively about Sherlock, in one way or another. You shook your head.

"The time was right but the date was wrong. Said two days ago. Crossed the dateline twice but he didn't alter it."

"Okay, but how'd you know about him traveling around the world twice within a month?"

"New Breitling watch. Only came out this February." Sherlock did the closest thing you'd ever seen him do to a shrug, his shoulders moving infinitesimally upward and then dropping back down.

You sighed and Sherlock looked at you curiously.

"Y/N...." Sherlock let his arm fall and he stopped, turning to face you. "I... heard what you said to Sebastian."

"Okay," You swallowed, wondering where this was going.

"And I..." Sherlock gritted his teeth, looked pained. "Appreciate them."

Was this a thank you? From Sherlock Holmes? There were a thousand things that you could have said at that moment, but none of that came out. Instead, you heard yourself saying,

"Ummm. It's no big deal." You lifted a shoulder half-heartedly. "I was just, you know, being honest." You cleared your throat again and looked at the revolving doors in front of you. "Right. Okay. So d'you think we should sniff around here for a bit longer?"

You couldn't quite bring yourself to make eye contact with Sherlock. Sherlock shook his head.

"Got everything I need to know already, thanks." 

"Oh. Okay?"

Sherlock grinned down at you. "That graffiti was a message for someone at the bank working on the trading floors. We find the intended recipient and ..."

"They'll lead us to the person who sent it." The words tasted slow in your mouth, but eventually, you muddled through to your conclusion.

 

"Obvious."

"Sherlock, there are hundreds of people up there. Who was it meant for?"

"Pillars."

"What?" Why did he have to be so vague? "I hate it when you're vague so you sound smart," you muttered irritably. 

Sherlock shot you a fond look, the corner of his mouth twitching up.

"Pillars and the screens. Very few places you can see that graffiti from. That narrows the field considerably. And the message was left at eleven thirty-four last night. That tells us a lot." He stopped and looked at you expectantly. You sighed internally. Would he always need encouragement?

"Do tell," you said wryly gesturing forward as you and Sherlock went through the revolving doors of the lobby and out into the street. 

"Traders come to work at all hours. Some trade with Hong Kong in the middle of the night. That message was intended for someone who came in at midnight."

Sherlock held up a card to show you. You took it and stared hard at the elegant lettering.

"Not many Van Coons in the phonebook." Sherlock muttered quietly before abruptly yelling, "Taxi!"

You flinched backward and Sherlock absently put his free arm behind you to steady you as the cab pulled up. Sensing this ride wasn't going to be a talkative one, you climbed into the taxi silently and settled in to wait while Sherlock instructed the cabbie to Van Coon's address.

You stopped at a rather nondescript block of flats and Sherlock sauntered up to the door buzzer. Pressing the one marked "Van Coon," he stepped back and waited. After a few seconds with no response, Sherlock pressed it again. You waited for a moment in silence. Sherlock stepped back and stared at the wall of buzzers for a moment. And then he turned back and walked to the edge of the sidewalk to stare at the building.

"What, are you planning to get in from a window?" You snarked, raising an eyebrow. Sherlock shot you a calculating look, a small smile on his face.

"Not at all, Y/N." But as he brushed by you, you heard him mutter, "Not yet, anyway."

Stepping back to the wall of buzzers, he tapped one triumphantly.

"Just moved in."

"Who has?" You furrowed your brow.

"The floor above. New label." He tapped a buzzer with a handwritten label reading, "Wintle."

"They could have just replaced it." You pointed out helpfully. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

 

"No one ever does that, Y/N." He pressed the buzzer decisively. 

A woman's hesitant voice came over the intercom. 

"Hello?"

"Hi! Um, I live in the flat just below you. I-I don't think we've met." Sherlock looked into the camera innocently, his voice nervous and remarkably like a normal human being.

"No, well, uh, I've just moved in." The woman -- Ms. Wintle, you supposed -- replied.

Sherlock shot you an "I told you so" look and then looked back into the camera, the perfect picture of a harebrained man. 

"Actually, I've just locked my keys in my flat." Sherlock bit his lip plaintively and you huffed. He was laying it on a little thick with his puppy-dog eyes.

"D'you want me to buzz you in?" She sounded really nice.

"Yeah." Sherlock's tone switched, suddenly becoming less simpering and more like the man you knew, his voice going flat. "And can I use your balcony?"

"What?" The woman sounded a little panicked, but she buzzed Sherlock in nonetheless and you followed him in the building.

 

"Oh, Christ." You sighed irritably as you trotted behind Sherlock. Best to call John, then.


	19. He Shoots With His Right Hand

Poor Ms. Wintle, you thought to yourself as Sherlock stepped out into the balcony a few moments later. You had propped the gate open with a piece of rubble from the street, determined to not let it swing shut and lock you out. You weren't entirely able to explain why you were still outside, even to yourself. It had nothing at all to do with the anxious thrumming of your heart as you watched Sherlock out on the balcony you told yourself. Nothing at all. Letting your mind drift back to Ms. Wintle, you smirked. She probably had absolutely no idea what had just hit her. Watching in equal parts horror and fascination as Sherlock nimbly swing off Ms. Wintle's balcony on to Van Coon's, you loosed a soft sigh of relief as he reached for the handle of the door and stepped inside. Now you stepped off the street and inside the building.   
You hurried past a few errant tenants, wishing fleetingly that you had Sherlock's skills of deduction — wishing that you could read them the way he could — before stopping outside Van Coon's front door.

You waited a few moments and then cast your gaze up and down the hallway. Okay, then. Nothing and no one. Shifting your weight from one foot to the other, you tried to look as innocuous as possible and not at all acting as an accomplice in crime. Not that the law would ever apply to Sherlock anyway, you thought to yourself with a soft snort. Shifting your weight again, you tried not to start to worry. It'd been a few minutes since Sherlock had gone inside. After another minute of silence, you reached forward and pressed the buzzer.   
"Sherlock?" Nothing. Pressing the button again, you said more loudly, "Sherlock!"  
Nothing. Ugh. Either Sherlock was just being Sherlock or he was in danger. Anxiety surging up, you pressed the buzzer.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, are you okay?"

You sighed and tried to resist the urge to bang your head against the door. Why was he like this?  
"Sherlock?" you tried again. "Anytime you want to let me in would be nice." You emphasized your statement by rapping your knuckles sharply against the door. Stepping back, you sighed heavily and then not a second later, Sherlock burst through the front door and whipped his head around frantically before catching your gaze.

"Y/N." He said it with such gravity and finality that you shivered. "Time to call the amateurs." He added dryly. "A man's been murdered."

"And I thought Christmas wasn't for another few months," you shot back, rewarded with a soft smirk. "I'll call Lestrade."

Sherlock nodded curtly and walked back into the flat.

"Investigating before the police mess it up?" 

Sherlock nodded again, not really listening. You sat down on the white sofa, resigned, and waited for the police to come.

Thirty minutes later found you and Sherlock in the bedroom, his coat off and him putting on a pair of latex gloves to ostensibly examine the body. The soft gurgle of voices drifted into the bedroom, the crowd of forensics officers dispersed throughout the flat. You looked back down at the scene in front of you.

A man lying dead, bullet hole in his brain, gun nearby. It seemed obvious enough, and yet Sherlock was here. 

"Do you think it could have been suicide? Maybe he lost a lot of money and couldn't see a way out. These bankers and traders seem susceptible to such tendencies."

Sherlock barely looked back at you.

"We don't know that it was suicide."

"The door was locked from the inside; you had to climb down the balcony." You pursed your lips thoughtfully. "Improbable that somebody broke in, given how high off the ground the flat is, and the door was locked." 

Sherlock squatted down by a suitcase on the floor near the bed and flipped open the lid. He stared at the contents inside for a few seconds.

"Been away three days, judging by the laundry." Sherlock's brow furrowed as his finger traced the air above the dirtied clothing. He straightened up and turned to you. "Look at the case. There was something tightly packed inside it."

"Oh?" You arched a brow. "Thanks, Sherlock, but I'll just take your word for it."

"Problem?" Sherlock seemed genuinely confused.

"I don't want to root around someone's dirty laundry," You crinkled your nose and a brief fondness passed over Sherlock's face as he walked back over to the foot of the bed and began to examine Van Coon's shoes.

"Those symbols at the bank – the graffiti. Why were they put there?"

"They're a code?" You hedged, knowing that Sherlock was mostly talking for your sake. 

Sherlock nodded, moving up to carefully open up the man's jacket. "Exactly. Why were they painted? If you want to communicate, why not use e-mail?"

"Too normal?" You tried, rolling your eyes. Sherlock shot you a reproving glare.

"Be serious, Y/N."

"Maybe he wasn't answering," you shrugged, and Sherlock nodded.

"Good. You follow."

"No." You shook your head and Sherlock shot you another reproving look. "Please deign to elaborate."

"What kind of a message would everyone try to avoid?"

You frowned in confusion. "The... bad kind? Threats?"

"Precisely." Sherlock rewarded you with an approving look before gently prying open Van Coon's mouth and pulling out a small black origami flower from inside. Air hissed out of the corpse's lungs.

"He was being threatened." Sherlock looked like he was about to say more but then you heard a man just outside the bedroom door.

"Bag this up, will you ..."

Sherlock tucked the flower into an evidence bag carefully. 

"By whom, though?" You frowned and Sherlock looked expectantly at the door. 

"... and see if you can get prints off this glass." The man behind the voice — a young detective in plain clothing walked into the bedroom. Sherlock straightened and walked toward the man, extending his hand.

"Ah, Sergeant. We haven't met." 

The young man glanced down at Sherlock's hand and put his own on his hips.

"Yeah," the man scoffed, "I know who you are, and I'd prefer it if you didn't tamper with any of the evidence."

"Excuse you?" You cut in as Sherlock lowered his hand and narrowed his eyes. The man turned to you.

"Excuse yourself. This is a crime scene; what are you doing here?"

You planted your hands your hips, defensive.

"Doing your job, apparently." You shot back, tone all venom and vitriol.

Sherlock cleared his throat and stepped to the side, blocking you from view of the sergeant.

"I've phoned Lestrade. Is he on his way?"

The man shook his head.

"He's busy. I'm in charge. And it's not Sergeant; it's Detective Inspector. Dimmock."

Sherlock looked at the man in surprise and you couldn't resist questioning.

"You're a detective inspector? You look like you should be at home doing school work and chores for mummy."

Dimmock glared at you.

"Just stay out of the way and out of my crime scene."

Dimmock walked out of the bedroom and Sherlock absently gripped your arm as he pulled you out of the room, following Dimmock. 

"We're obviously looking at a suicide." Dimmock announced to the room at large. The room at large regretfully completely ignored him.

You nodded. "That does seem to be the main explanation of the facts." 

Sherlock turned to look at you, his expression stern. Snapping off his latex gloves, he said,

"Wrong. It's one possible explanation of some of the facts." Sherlock turned back to face Dimmock. "You've got a solution that you like, but you're choosing to ignore anything you see that doesn't comply with it."

"Like?"

Sherlock sighed heavily, annoyed. "The wound was on the right side of his head."

"And?"

Sherlock looked at Dimmock as if he really were nothing but a dull schoolboy. "Van Coon was left-handed." Sherlock mimed pointing a gun to his right temple with his left hand to illustrate his point. "Requires quite a bit of contortion."

"Left-handed?" Dimmock sounded muddled.

There was nothing left of the civility Sherlock has conjured up a few moments ago; now he was all sarcasm and condescension. 

"Oh, I'm amazed you didn't notice. All you have to do is look around this flat." Sherlock pointed to the table beside the sofa. "Coffee table on the left-hand side; coffee mug handle pointing to the left. Power sockets: habitually used the ones on the left. Pen and paper on the left-hand side of the phone because he picked it up with his right and took down messages with his left. Do you want me to go on?"

"No, I think he gets it, Sherlock," you interjected, trying to de-escalate the situation. Sherlock whirled to you, his face bright and intense, eyes predatory.

"Oh, I might as well, Y/N. I'm almost at the bottom of the list."

"Why not just finish it off then?" You rolled your eyes softly and waited for the rest of the torrent of deductions. Sherlock pointed toward the kitchen.

"There's a knife on the breadboard with butter on the right side of the blade because he used it with his left." Sherlock stared at Dimmock impatiently, eyes hard. "It's highly unlikely that a left-handed man would shoot himself in the right side of his head. Conclusion: someone broke in here and murdered him. Only explanation of all the facts." 

Sherlock stared at Dimmock coolly, who frowned.

"But the gun: why —"

"He was waiting for the killer. He'd been threatened." Sherlock explained brusquely, effectively cutting off Dimmock from further questioning. He whirled away and pulled his scarf over his neck.

"What?" Dimmock sounded bewildered.

"Oh, today at the bank. There was a warning for him." You cut in, kindly clearing up Dimmock's confusion. Sherlock nodded vaguely in your direction.

"He fired a shot when his attacker came in."

"And the bullet?" Dimmock pressed skeptically. 

"Went through the open window." There was a heavily implied of course in Sherlock's tone. 

"Oh, come on!" Dimmock scoffed scornfully. "What are the chances of that?!"

"Probably about the same as someone as young as you being a Detective Inspector," you muttered to yourself. Though judging by the quirk of his lips, Sherlock heard you.

"Wait until you get the ballistics report. The bullet in his brain wasn't fired from his gun. I guarantee it." Sherlock flipped his coat collar up, every bit the picture of arrogance.

"But if his door was locked from the inside, how did the killer get in?" Dimmock sounded an equal mixture flummoxed and enraged. 

"Good! You're finally asking the right questions." Sherlock yanked his glove on forcefull and sent Dimmock one last withering, condescending glare before whirling around and dramatically strutting out of the flat. 

Dimmock turned to look at you and you sighed.

"Goodbye, Detective Inspector. I hope we don't have the displeasure of meeting each other again." With that, you followed Sherlock out.

Joining Sherlock out in the hallway, you asked him softly, "Isn't John left-handed?"

Sherlock shot you a look.

"Yes. Why?"

"He shoots with his right hand," you said wryly. "Just a thought." You patted Sherlock's forearm absently and brushed ahead of him. Now you had to go actually work. You shook your head as you imagined the interrogation you would face by Molly once you explained to her where you'd been and why you were so late.


	20. We All Make Enemies

You made it just outside the doors and were about to try and hail down a cab when Sherlock grabbed your arm and pushed it down.

"What are you doing?"

"Wha- Sherlock. I have things to do." You frowned and then pushed forward when Sherlock opened his mouth to say something. "That don't involve me breaking into some dead man's flat."

"Technically, I did the breaking and entering. You were really just an accomplice."

"Lovely, Sherlock, thanks." You snorted and rolled your eyes. "But seriously, I told Molly yesterday I would come in and file a few things."

"Then go later. Right now, Y/N, the game is on." Sherlock frantically hailed down a cab and stuffed you in it, quickly squeezing in beside you.

"Where are we going?" You asked as Sherlock leaned back from the cab driver, having evidently been kind enough to clue him in as to where your destination was.

"Lunch." 

"Oh." You paused, looking at Sherlock more carefully. "I thought you didn't eat when 'the game is on.'" 

Sherlock sent you a bland look.

"We're not eating."

"You may not be, but I certainly am. Sherlock, eating is ---"

"Boring. It's boring," Sherlock cut you off impatiently, waving his hand in your general direction. 

"Right," you dragged your eyes down to his hand where it now lay between you two. "Providing sufficient nutrients to your body so that you can function is boring."

"Oh for -- Y/N, if you're going to talk the whole time I'm kicking you out of the cab." 

"Yeah that'd make a nice headline," you shot back. "Internet detective pushes neighbor into traffic. It'd do wonders for your image," you snorted softly but then actually shut up, watching as the tightly-wound traffic of London passed by. 

Some time later, you pulled up at an upscale restaurant. You crinkled your nose getting out of the cab. Sherlock was a lot of things, but he wasn't really one to go to restaurants like these. You'd gone out with him to a place like this before -- before John moved in, when Sherlock didn't have a case and you'd had a free evening. Sherlock had irritated the waiter and chef so much that the police had been called and there was very nearly a riot at the bar. You hadn't tried to going out to dinner again at a place like that since then. 

It took you less than a second to figure out why you'd come once you walked inside, because Sherlock, being the subtle and understated character he was, immediately and dramatically strode toward a table, his eyes narrowed and face wrought with determination. You followed behind, less enthusiastically, to the table where several men in suits sat, their attention glued to a laughing Sebastian. 

"... and he's left trying to sort of cut his hair with a fork, which of course can never be done!"

"It was a threat. That's what the graffiti meant."

You watched in both horror and amusement as the faces of the diners went from amused to baffled and then to mildly horrified. Sebastian looked like he'd just been hit in the face with a cricket bat and you were definitely silently enjoying his discomfort and panic.

"I'm kind of in a meeting." Sebastian cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably, shooting his eyes over to his companions who now all looked very intrigued. "Can you make an appointment with my secretary?" 

 

Sherlock shook his head.

"I don't think this can wait. Sorry, Sebastian. One of your traders – someone who worked in your office – was killed."

"What?" Sebastian looked aghast. The man next to him looked enthralled. 

"Yes," you deadpanned. "right in front of your salad." 

Nobody laughed, so you sighed and explained further since it looked like Sherlock wasn't going to.

"Van Coon. The police are at his flat."

"Killed?" 

You had to admit, Sebastian's shock was a little comical. 

"Sorry to interfere with everyone's digestion. Still wanna make an appointment? Would, maybe, nine o'clock at Scotland Yard suit?" Sherlock interjected sarcastically.

Sebastian cleared his throat, setting down his glass of water and running his fingers inside his shirt collar.

"Would you gentlemen," Sebastian turned to his tablemates, "Excuse me for a moment?"

Without waiting for a reply, Sebastian stood up and hastily made his way to the men's restroom. Sherlock whirled to follow him and you trailed behind, feeling a lot like a duckling. Sherlock barged in immediately after Sebastian but you paused. After a few seconds, Sherlock popped his head back out into the hall.

"Y/N? Come on. The game, Y/N."

"Yes, yes," you huffed, walking into the men's bathroom. "It's on. I know."

The two of you waited in a somewhat awkward silence as Sebastian took care of his business. IN your defense, you politely avoided his eyes and hung around the door until he started washing his hands, at which point you stepped up beside Sherlock. 

"Right so... Van Coon?" 

"What about him?" Sebastian frowned, turning to face you, and you threw your hands up in the air. 

"I don't know! Information -- why would someone want to kill him? Where was he educated? Anything. Give us some insight, if that is at all possible for you." You huffed out.

"Ignore Y/N, Sebastian. She's just hungry." Sherlock put a placating hand o your arm and you glared up at him. 

"Right," Sebastian narrowed his eyes and looked at Sherlock, drying his hands with a towel. "From Harrow. Went to Oxford. Very bright guy. Worked in Asia for a while, so ..." he trailed off.

"So... you gave him the Hong Kong accounts."

 

" Lost five mill in a single morning; made it all back a week later. Nerves of steel, Eddie had." There was something akin to admiration floating in Sebastian's tone.

"Who would want to kill him?" You were still confused on that bit. 

"We all make enemies."

"You all make enemies?" You echoed in disbelief. "Really? Are you doing some things that would warrant a bullet in your temple -- besides being a class-a dick?"

"Not usually." Sebastian gave you a sickly sweet grin and his phone beeped. "Excuse me." He looked down at his phone and then back up at Sherlock, his expression much calmer now. "It's my Chairman. The police have been on to him. Apparently, they're telling him it was a suicide." 

Sherlock shook his head decisively. 

"Well, they've got it wrong, Sebastian. He was murdered."

Sebastian shrugged. "Well, I'm afraid they don't see it like that."

"Seb," Sherlock said sternly at Sebastian who shrugged again. 

"And neither does my boss. I hired you to do a job. Don't get side-tracked." With that, he brushed past both you and Sherlock to leave the room. You waited a beat until he was gone before chuckling humourlessly to yourself and reaching out to soothe Sherlock, who looked like he might indeed cause another riot at the bar.

"And here I was thinking that bankers were these heartless bastards."


	21. Aren't You Coming?

You and Sherlock ambled back into 221B some hours later, Sherlock having accompanied you to St. Barts, where you actually got some work done and Sherlock pestered Molly relentlessly. And of course, poor Molly was completely incapable of telling Sherlock off so that she could focus on her actual job instead of fetching this or that for him. You had half a mind to give Sherlock a stern scolding over that whole fiasco, but then decided you had neither the energy nor time that 

The next few days passed blissfully quiet. You went to work, finished some cases, filed paperwork, and didn't see Sherlock much at all. Briefly, the next morning you ran into John, who was coming on out to go to a job interview. You hoped he got a job; not everyone could be like Sherlock, who often made his money in questionable ways at best. With John out and about, you figured you should eventually check on Sherlock, at the very least to make sure he wasn't being attacked by some errant sword-wielding maniac. Then again, maybe it wouldn't be so bad if Sherlock had some sense and humility knocked into him.

Stepping out of the cab, you pushed your way through the door of 221B and made your way up the stairs. For a fleeting second, you felt a lot like Sherlock when you unwound your scarf and unbuttoned your coat. You paused at the threshold and then gently pushed the door open into chaos.

Utter and complete chaos. That was your initial reaction. Though the sight was not something you were surprised to see; Sherlock did have a tendency to visualize his cases, and this one was no exception. Photographs of the graffiti were pasted up on the mirror above the fireplace. Sherlock was sitting, staring blankly at the photographs. Belatedly, you realized you should have brought some food with you because in all likelihood he had not eaten.

His fingers were steepled in his traditional fashion, and you walked further in before sighing and dropping down into John's armchair. Without taking his off the mirror, Sherlock spoke.

"I was wondering where you'd gone off. I asked for a pen."

You raised your eyebrow. "When exactly did you ask this?" 

Nevertheless, you got up and walked over to Sherlock's desk, rummaging through to pick up a pen.

"Oh," Sherlock dragged his eyes over to you. "About an hour ago."

"Well," you chucked the pen at him irritably, growing even more annoyed as Sherlock caught it without looking away from the photographs, "I was working. Which is what most people do."

"I work."

"When you want to." You rolled your eyes, dropping back into John's armchair. 

Sherlock beckoned to you.

"Have a look at this, Y/N."

You stood up a dutifully followed Sherlock over to the table, where his computer displayed an article. "Ghostly Killer Leaves A Mystery For Police." Next to the article title was a small headshot of a bald man.

An intruder who can walk through walls murdered a man in his London apartment last night. Brian Lukis, 41, a freelance journalist from Earl's Court was found shot in his fourth-floor flat but all his doors and windows were locked and there were no apparent signs of a break in. A police spokesman said they are still uncertain how the assailant broke in.

You raised your eyebrows skeptically. "An intruder who can walk through walls?"

Sherlock nodded. "Happened last night. Journalist shot dead in his flat; doors locked, windows bolted from the inside – exactly the same as Van Coon."

Oh. Oh. A wave of horror washed over you. "Dear God," you murmured. "You think..."

Sherlock nodded again, his face stern. "He's killed another one."

You rocked back on your heels.

"Well then...Scotland yard?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied, whirling around and grabbing his coat. "Scotland yard."

***

Across from you, looking like a petulant child with his folded arms, sat Inspector Dimmock. Sherlock stood beside you, typing on a laptop. 

"You see--" Sherlock turned the laptop to face Dimmock. "Brian Lukis, freelance journalist. Murdered in his flat, doors locked from the inside." 

Dimmock stared back at Sherlock, unimpressed. You sighed.

"Look, Inspector -- you have to admit it's similar," -- Dimmock scowled at you and you meant his gaze challengingly -- "Both men killed by someone who can apparently walk through walls."

At Dimmock's lack of response, Sherlock jumped in, growing agitated.

"Inspector, do you seriously believe that Eddie Van Coon was just another City suicide?" Sherlock looked at you as if he were searching for patience in your eyes when all Dimmock did was squirm uncomfortably. You shrugged and offered him a supportive smile. Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned back to Dimmock, determination set in the shape of his jaw.

"You have seen the ballistics report, I suppose?"

Dimmock assented reluctantly.

"And the shot that killed him -- was it fired from his own gun?" Sherlock pressed, growing more intense. Dimmock sighed and shook his head.

"No."

"No." Sherlock hissed, the irritation plain on his face. "So this investigation might move a bit quicker if you were to take my word as gospel." Dimmock glared at Sherlock, who leaned over the desk, his voice low and threatening. "I've just handed you a murder inquiry."

Dimmock exhaled heavily and Sherlock straightened.

"Five minutes in his flat."

***

"So, I guess we're going to the scene?" You looked up at Sherlock, the wind whipping your hair around. 

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder, face slightly mischevious, the cab pulling up to the sidewalk.

"Aren't you coming?"


End file.
